The Infinite Universes of Holmes and Watson
by Ready-made Prodigy
Summary: Officially now the Magic Arc series, to celebrate a friendship that was almost like magic. It is full of meaning, wonder, and strife. It's gritty and horrid, but beautiful. AU kid!fic plus magic-users
1. Beginnings

_AU_

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Although rare, it was not unheard of for a boy or girl to come into their magic before they reached puberty if their family displayed a particularly deep endowment for magical ability. Mycroft had already shown great mastery in that arena so it was not with great shock that Sherlock had manifested well before the age of his peers. Holmes more or less resented his gifts. Though the spells came easily to him and the reservoir in which he drew his power from never seemed to empty, as young as he was, more often than not his magic worked independent of his command.

For instance whenever he stepped outside, clouds would inexplicably form above him and darken and gather depending on his moods. Sometimes when he was in an exceptionally foul mood it would even rain. Once a girl had tried approaching him while he was deep in alchemic study and it had actually snowed. Thus he had been dubbed with the less than complementary nickname of 'Stormcrow' and most, if not all, of the other magelings avoided him and his capricious emotions.

That, more than anything, was probably what kept his clouds so dark.

Then one day one of the newer boys, perhaps not having heard the rumors or paying heed to them or wanting to see the truth of them himself, approached Holmes as he crouched by the muddy bank of the school's river holding an extremely sought after blue and purple salamander in his pale and dexterous hands.

"You must be very talented," the other boy commented in way of greeting. "What kind of crystal did you use?"

"I did not employ one," Holmes answered disinterestedly as he began searching for a way to harvest some of the creature's secretions.

"You didn't use a tracking spell? But then, how did you find it?"

"Logic, deduction, reasoning. Magic is not everything you know. We were given brains too," Holmes bit down on his scathing retort, angry at himself for snapping at the only person who had chosen to talk with him in weeks. His clouds gathered menacingly.

The other boy didn't seem to notice and merely cocked his head in consideration. "Really? Tell me."

And Holmes did. He told the other boy excitedly about the various speeds of the river's current and the approximate weight of one of the salamanders and thus his reasoning on where it would likely reside. He also traced the footsteps of Magus Buchanan whom he knew harvested the salamander secretion because of the mud stains he sometimes observed on his left trouser leg that indicated he had visited the exact spot they were standing on according to the composition of the dirt.

"But what would you need it for? It seems a rather tedious and pointless exercise," the boy said.

Holmes laughed at his directness, but answered nonetheless. "It identifies blood. Think of it, instead of performing Kochran's Hemoglobic Identification spell, you can simply put a drop of this on the spot you suspect is blood and confirm it straight away."

"And what would you use that for? Has someone been murdered?"

"Somewhere, yes and someday I shall be the one to solve it," Holmes announced.

The boy smiled affably at his display of ego and pointed at the salamander. "How are you to retrieve the secretions?"

Holmes' clouds shifted turbulently. "I don't rightly know. I think I might have to make an incision of some sort."

The boy frowned and held his hand out for the salamander. Holmes reluctantly gave it to him whereupon the boy bent down to retrieve a pillbug from beneath a rock and fed it to the creature. It secreted almost instantly.

"Not quite so brilliant a deduction as yours, of course but—"

"No, it's marvelous!"

They spent several minutes finding as many insects as they could to feed to the salamander until it promptly disappeared somehow out of their grasp though leaving plenty of secretion in its wake.

"May I sit with you during mealtime?" the boy asked shyly.

"If you don't fear getting wet," Holmes replied bitterly, repeating what many of the other students had whispered to each other when confronted with the problem of a decreasing number of seats anywhere but near him when they dined outside in the summer months.

"I don't understand."

Holmes pointed at the clouds billowing over his head.

The boy frowned again at the unfathomable expression on his new friend's face and then up at the coal black clouds. With a decisive move, the boy waved his hand in a swiping motion towards them. They dispersed instantaneously.

He held out that same hand when he said, "My name is John by the way, John Watson."

Holmes took the hand into his own. "Sherlock Holmes."

Later at dinner, all the magelings (and even some of the Magus) were all atwitter to see Holmes sit at his usual place on the far end, clouds an iron grey to match his eyes, when the new boy approached with a smile and a wave, whereupon Holmes' trademark storm clouds disbanded like they had never existed at all.

They didn't know what was more believable, Holmes finally finding someone that he could stand and stand him in return or that Watson's magic was somehow more powerful than Holmes'.

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_A/N: This random drabble/one-shot series madness is all the result of Pompey whose own drabble series made me serious jealous and thus made me start this up. On another note, I think Holmes would make a brilliant magician.  
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	2. Worlds Together

_AU, Magic Arc_

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No one had expected it to happen. The Magus often sent students to deal with the magical fauna that sometimes wandered onto the school grounds. It was a very large part of learning. Banishing banshees and defending against griffins or malign spirits was all a part of learning to use their magic in difficult situations. No one could have known it would be a Questing Beast. With a body of a leopard and head of snake, a Questing Beast was a product of old magic, even older than dragons. It was the eldest magic, the magic of life and death. A single bite meant certain death.

There were seven of them—less powerful than a formation of three, but still retained a prolific mystical significance—and the beast had nearly killed them all. Holmes, the strongest of the group, had stayed back to shield their retreat as the Magus flew in to intervene. They came only a second too late as the Questing Beast shattered Holmes' shields and clawed a gaping wound in his side. There was no bite, but Holmes was dying anyways.

Watson then performed his first and only healing spell. There were no words to it or components. It was the deepest magic a mage could perform. The first magicks, before man could speak or knew what forms to take with his hands, only required a wild and powerful will to _change_. Watson reached with his magic and changed this tiny and infinitesimal working of the universe to save Holmes' life.

He fell into an eight month coma in the process and when he awoke he was not the same. His magic had been extinguished. The Magus were forced to condition his mind into forgetting the world of magic. When Holmes protested, the Magus told him he was lucky to not have been bitten. If he had, Watson might have extinguished his life force as well. The night before he was to be sent back to the Other world, Holmes snuck past the wards and barriers to speak with his sleeping friend one last time.

"I will find you someday John Watson. I promise you that."

Eighteen years later, wounded from his time in the army and quickly running out of funds, Watson seemingly by chance met with a strange and eccentric gentleman who was willing to share digs with him. Holmes had an odd knack for finding things, especially the things Watson needed, which would suddenly and conveniently appear when he wanted them most. He also kept a strange assortment of chemicals and a blue and purple salamander in a jar. Holmes had asked him once if he was interested in it. Watson couldn't say he was.

They eventually became partners in Holmes' private detective agency and became infamous in the criminal world.

It was a moonless October night when they had been cornered in an alleyway. There was only a brick wall at their back and four men wielding chains and clubs coming rapidly towards them. Holmes hadn't brought his revolver and Watson was out of bullets. They engaged as best they could, but when Watson saw the stolen police baton making a stunning arc towards his friend's head while he disarmed one of the men wielding a switchblade, Watson's desperation got the better of him.

Taking a split second to grab onto Holmes' collar, he held out his other hand like one would in order to conduct an orchestra and ripped an entirely unfamiliar word from his throat and flung his hand into the air. Streams of fat, white sparks billowed forth from his fingertips, bouncing off the alley walls and showering up and then down onto the six of them. They all should have been blinded except for Watson, but Holmes was soon tugging at his hand to follow him through an archway that appeared to have materialized out of solid brick. Watson didn't know how far they ran, but they didn't stop until they were safely in their apartment at Baker Street.

Holmes whirled Watson around to stare into his eyes. "Watson, tell me, have you remembered?"

"Remembered what?" Watson repeated dazedly. He was shaking, causing him to sink wearily into the settee when his legs refused to support him.

"How were you able to do that?!" Holmes exclaimed, eyes gleaming with Watson didn't know what.

"Holmes please," Watson said, hoping to diffuse a situation that was spinning wildly out of control, "if you wish to keep me as your biographer instead of being incarcerated to an insane asylum you will let this pass and never speak of it again. It's never worked before in any case."

Holmes quieted for a moment. "Watson, I will do no such thing, but you must tell me how you did it."

Watson shook his head, now a hint of fear in his face. "No."

Holmes sighed and with the deftness of a born performer, mirrored Watson's previous actions and muttered a similar word before flinging a barrage of gold sparks all across the room.

Watson's eyes widened in shock. "How did you—?"

Holmes' lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "You first, my dear fellow."

"I—When I was a boy I used to have dreams of a place where I could do things, the sort of things people burned for in the past. The dreams felt so real, but whenever I tried to do them when I was awake nothing would happen. I hadn't thought about them in years, but when I'm around you I feel like…" Watson trailed off, trying to think of a way to best describe the feeling. "Since I have come to live with you, sometimes," Watson started again, "sometimes I can light the candles without remembering if I struck a match or not. Earlier in the alley, when I grabbed onto you, I could feel it inside me. I know it sounds insane—though how you can do it too I have no idea—but that is all I can tell you."

Holmes' smile grew warmer. "I have something to tell you as well, my friend."

It turned out that Watson's magic had not been extinguished after all. He had just placed it somewhere else.

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_A/N: The Magic Arc will consist of 4 drabbles and might continue to appear randomly throughout this collection._


	3. Black Holes

_AU, Magic Arc - Random  
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_Inspired by comments made be shedoc and Kadigan_

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I came home to a storm brewing in Baker Street. Literally.

Holmes sat with his violin across his knees and a dark scowl across his face.

"Nineteen days, Watson. Nineteen positively intolerable days without cases."

Everything I could have said, I said before. There was really no point other than they had to be said.

"It will pass Holmes. If anything, you are being the intolerable one. Go out, take a walk, eat something for a change."

Holmes is a tortured and broken soul. I know, I had Gazed it once. He truly doesn't feel happiness the way you and I might. Happiness for us is that transient opposite to misery. For Holmes, happiness was the rare times when he could simply live with his misery.

He leapt up in a furious rage and for the first time since I had seen him pick up the instrument, he flung it carelessly into the cushions of the settee.

"I am not merely sulking. I am tired of this world and its pain and the relentless agony of the human condition. This isn't something you can simply wave away with a sunny smile."

"Oh yes, is it really so serious as all that?" I exclaimed, hurt by his unwarranted attack on me.

"Fine," he snarled, "you may try."

He gathered to him the clouds that I had not seen since the days of our youth. It was a sign of his skill that he did not need to be outside to call them to him. They appeared out of nowhere, horrible, dark, and rolling about overhead, blotting out the sun that streamed through the sitting room windows. They were thick and solid black. These were the clouds that had brought the flood that purged the earth of life but for Noah and his kin.

I made several signs with my hands, twisting them in unnatural positions and reached into the small rip of nothingness I had created and pulled a small fraction of it. It turned into a black, impenetrable sphere, about the size of an orange and sucked up all of Holmes' clouds, leaving behind an unnatural emptiness in its wake. It was a horrible spell and it made my skin crawl to perform it. I cast it away as soon as I was able.

The sunlight returned, but it felt cold.

"There," I hissed. "No sunshine, no childish wonder. We're stuck here. I'm sorry. You didn't really have to come, you know."

"I did." He picked up his Stradivarius and retrieved his bow. "You're the only one who can still do that, Watson. We're together. It's enough."

He played. I listened. It was like magic.


	4. Empathy

_Magic Arc- kid!verse_

_These two chapters are dedicated to my two biggest fans, KCS and PutMoneyInThyPurse, especially PMITP, who I think must be my trans-dimensional twin. _

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The Magus referred to it as 'meditations', but the magelings all called it 'pain lab'.

A fundamental step in fully controlling one's magic was the ability to mentally control one's own pain. Exercises in maintaining pain could, in theory, strengthen one's ability to command their magic. Mostly though, it used torture as a form of character building and tested a student's resourcefulness.

Holmes, like with many of his other subjects, had little difficulty. He used a complicated internalized, mental discipline where he accepted the pain as his body's way of telling him that something was wrong and with that acknowledgement he could set aside the worst of it from his conscience mind and maintain it elsewhere. He imagined it like creating a box made of hard crystal inside his mind and carefully placing his pain inside it where he could watch it, but was ultimately kept out of his way. He felt some discomfort, but it was certainly bearable.

Watson, on the other hand, was suffering miserably. He lay on the mat next to Holmes', convulsing every so often as the pain grew worse and worse. He had attempted a type of physicalization where he molded his pain into a physical presence, in this case a flame, in order to help him focus his mental control. As long as he kept the flame burning low, the pain was at a minimum. The higher the flame became, the more pain he experienced. At the moment his flame was at medium height, though it erratically blazed higher every time he attempted to lower it. It flickered and brightened cruelly until Holmes could bear it no longer.

"Watson," he whispered urgently, his voice lost among the whimpers and soft moans of pain emanating throughout the room, "let me help you."

Watson shook his head stubbornly, tears leaking out of his eyes.

"Give me some of it," Holmes insisted.

"Y-you'll get in trou-touble" Watson gasped past a spasm of pain.

"It doesn't matter. Think of it as another method of maintaining pain. Give me your hand."

Watson hesitated, but after transferring the flame to his left, he shakily reached out his trembling hand towards Holmes'. Holmes grasped onto it immediately as Watson opened a threading link to his pain. For a moment, Holmes was overwhelmed with the keen and acrid sensation of Watson's pain. No wonder Watson could not contain it, he thought, it was nearly intolerable. Holmes worked swiftly along with Watson to create a wave-like sensation between the two of them that degraded the sensory perception of the pain.

So wrapped up in their joint effort at managing each other's pain, they did not notice that as the flame got lower, the sounds of suffering around the room became quieter.

~*~

"What happened in pain lab today?" one of the Magus addressed his colleague, who swept aside her powder blue robe to sit beside him.

"I wish you wouldn't call it that. It sounds horrid, like we're torturing them in the spirit of experimentation."

"That's exactly what we are doing."

The Magus sighed. "Davies detached her mind. She will make a good necromancer someday. I had to reduce the level of Crawley's. I don't think he will ever make it past a second-rate conjurer. Roderick used earthcrafting to spread his pain into the ground to lessen the full impact of it. Holmes, of all people—"

"He showed signs of empathic ability."

"Yes! It was no surprise that Watson was picking up increments of everyone else's pain, but Holmes as well! He is the one I would least expect it from."

"It seems to me that there is more to him than his dizzying intellect."

"They make a good team."

"Yes, I look forward to the Games in the spring."

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_A/N: I just might make Infinite Universes into a full-out Magic Arc series. I thought I would run out of ideas by now, but they just keep coming. We'll see how long I can keep it up._


	5. Revenge

_AU, Magic Arc _

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In the realm of magic there are rules and there are Laws. If one wishes to perform magic, rules could not be circumvented or ignored. When you broke any one of the Laws, you risked unleashing chaos and causing irreparable damage to yourself. He had already broken the Sixth Law and illegally opened a path through the Veil to this Other world in order to find Watson. Now he was going to break the most fundamental rule of magic: never perform a spell in the height of emotion. Lots of magelings never entered the ranks of the Magus because of that one rule. A true mage commands their magic and does not allow it to control them. Before this moment, Holmes never had a problem manipulating his magic with a detached and dispassionate mind. Now though, not only was he going to break this fundamental rule, but he was going to break the First Law along with it: Thou Shalt not Kill through the use of Magick.

They had taken Watson, those lecherous cretins that littered this foul and horrible world, and by the time Holmes had arrived he had already received two bullets to the chest and one in his abdomen and left arm, right above the elbow.

The only emotion Holmes didn't feel was remorse.

They deserved it.

They tried to run, but he summoned water by recombining the molecules in the air and sent a wave towards their fleeing feet. He barked a command in what would have been ancient Egyptian if the Egyptians had lived in southern France and a wave of hot steam billowed out from the wave, stinging their eyes and skin, and leaving solid ice encased about their feet and ankles. There was a no spell in this world that could instantly create ice, but Holmes could remove the heat from the water.

Holmes contemplated his next move as the wretches fought to free themselves.

He couldn't use the Mental Will spell which would tie their minds together and crush whoever's will was weaker. The animals that inhabited this world were psi-blind. The spell would have no effect. That was his last real thought before he instinctively reached for the magic he had been able to perform since the age of seven and called the wind to gather the clouds around him. There was some magic he could not use in this world, but it had earth and sky just like any other and it answered his call in eager anticipation. He blocked the sun. Lightening flashed and thunder roared. He called the lightening and it pierced into his body where he transformed it into pure destructive energy. The ground cracked and bowed beneath him as he drew power from the earth. The magic fed off his pain and he poured all his hate and anger into it, making it fester and crackle around him.

He stretched out his hands to lay waste on all that was before him when suddenly a foreign though familiar warmth spread through his chest and permeated throughout his entirely body, like the feeling of a fast acting wine thrumming through his veins or a warm breeze enveloping him in sunshine, effectively cutting off his connection to his magic. The power and energy he gathered left him in a confused and inarticulate rush that probably would have flattened the surrounding buildings had they not simply slammed harmlessly against the invisible ward encasing him.

Holmes shuddered and fell to one knee, only raising his head when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him. Watson limped to the perimeter of the ward he created and thrust a hand through it. The ward became a clear yet visible barrier of crimson before it split apart and evaporated. Holmes looked up into the drawn and gaunt face of his friend. The gunshot wounds to his chest and abdomen were fully healed, though the wound to his arm was still bleeding freely. Holmes glanced at the drawn circle that surrounded him, confirming that it was blood, and followed the trail of it that led off to the corner he had last seen Watson lying where it terminated into a few runes hastily scribbled in blood.

"The cocaine has made you slow Holmes," Watson rasped as he used his shoe to scuff out an exit to his blood ward. "I have been chanting regeneration spells since you arrived. I would have been fine. No need for all the dramatics. You will have the Keepers knocking on our door. Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased."

"Angels be damned," Holmes growled as he shakily made his way to his feet. He shuffled out of the shallow crater he created and over to Watson, patting him down to make sure he was undamaged. Watson had lost at least eight or nine pounds. He would have had to dig into his reserves to heal the massive wounds. "Here," he said, a little more gently as he placed a hand over the wound on Watson's arm. There was a flash of emerald green light as the skin and muscles knitted back into place.

Watson wrinkled his nose at his work. "I need to teach you how to improve your healing spells. It is little wonder you possess so many scars."

Holmes briefly cupped his friend's neck, his thumb resting on his cheek and leaving a smear of Watson's own blood there. "Don't do that again, Watson."

"I will stick closer to you next time," Watson promised, more for Holmes' comfort than an acknowledgement for a failing on his own part.

Holmes' shoulders sagged and his gaze shifted over to the men still buried to their calves in burning ice. "I suppose you would like me to release them?"

"They hurt me," Watson said, a flicker of the fear he had felt at being utterly defenseless at the hands of his captors briefly haunting his eyes, "and right now I am exhausted beyond comprehension. I do not believe we lose anything in our moral fiber if we allow them to get a hint of frostbite."

The two of them trudged through the fog, which Holmes spellcrafting had dissolved into, leaning against each other for support.

"How did you neutralize my magic?" Holmes asked softly.

"I activated the latent magic I stored in you," Watson replied. "Besides," he turned his head to smile at his companion, "subduing your mercurial moods seems to be my lot in life."

Holmes chuckled. "I would have no one else, dear fellow." As they approached Baker Street, Holmes glanced up at their sitting room window and then about the street, eyes widening in comprehension and then narrowing in displeasure.

"What is it, Holmes?"

"Gabriel is waiting to speak with us."

Watson sighed. "Again? At least the Metatron thinks we are amusing."

"And Mrs. Hudson wonders why I do not attend mass," Holmes grumbled.

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_A/N: This turned out a little like my latest chapter of AiCB (which kinda pisses me off), but it has magic and angels, so there!_


	6. Duel

_Magic Arc, kid!verse_

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He couldn't move an inch and if he allowed it to go any longer he was in danger of asphyxiating. Holmes focused on the spell, ignoring the imminent crisis of not being able to breathe. He felt the edges of his brother's curse with his own magic. If he could only understand its essence, its basis of existence in the physical realm, then he could reverse it and tear it to shreds in the process. He couldn't move his lips, so he could only convey it through willpower alone. It weakened bit by bit, becoming brittle, frail. His fingertips tingled, free at last and he let out a torrent of flame escape through his fingertips, shattering the binding spell.

Even if he had meant to do more than merely draw breath, his brother was upon him with preternatural agility. He was thrown back at least thirty feet by a blast of pure kinetic energy where he would have slammed against the trunk of an ancient yew tree if he did not have the presence of mind to create a miniature cyclone to cushion the impact.

He tried to manage a transmutation to reform the earth around his brother into spikes, but Mycroft simply manipulated the resynthesis of his materials to create harmless and ineffectual spires of dazzling architectural detail.

Mycroft leaned casually against one of his spires with a clear look of disapproval on his face. "That was sloppy, Sherlock. It took you two seconds longer to break the binding curse. Who have you been practicing with?"

"Watson," Holmes replied, panting raggedly at the base of the yew tree. His nose had started bleeding.

Mycroft frowned. "He is hardly a challenging opponent."

"He is my friend," Holmes growled.

"He is a distraction. If you do not prove to me that your magic is progressing, I will tell father to have him transferred back to Edinburgh. Now, let's start again."

But Holmes had already started, a smear of his blood glistening in a solid rune on the roots of the yew behind him. Mycroft never saw it coming.

It was the first time Holmes had ever won a duel against his brother. He had never been lacking in skill, only the proper motivation.


	7. Trick

_Magic Arc, crack!fic_

_Inspired by my classmate who caught sight of me practicing vanishes underneath my desk and nearly had a case of apoplexy.  
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Wiggins' eyes bulged. "Lordy Mr. 'Olmes, I didn't know you could do magic!"

Inspector Lestrade pointedly cleared his throat. "Ah yes, it is hardly surprising that one such as Holmes knows some sleight-of-hand techniques, however even I have some talent in that respect."

To his credit the inspector performed the trick with admirable skill, making the coin disappear and reappear with a few minor flourishes of his hands. Wiggins and the other two Irregulars clapped appreciatively.

Holmes smirked and produced a silver shilling from his pocket. He tossed it high into the air and caught it between his thumb and forefinger where it immediately caught fire. When Holmes blew out the flame his fingers held a shining gold sovereign.

"Wow!" the Irregulars chorused, clapping madly.

"Where did you put the shilling?" Lestrade asked, his face screwed up in an attempt to hide his mystified expression.

Holmes smiled and shrugged. "Watson has it."

Watson reached into his own jacket pocket and drew out a glass marble. He rolled his eyes at Holmes, closed his fingers over the object and opened them again to reveal the missing shilling, bent corner and all. This received another thunderous round of applause.

"That Holmes, was just plain rude," Watson muttered, watching as a perplexed and frustrated Lestrade trudged back towards the station.

Holmes' sniggering continued on.


	8. Enchanted

_Magic Arc_

_This one's got some length. _^-^

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Enchantments were an advanced application of magic traditionally taught at the start of winter in anticipation of the customary gift exchanges performed on the day of the solstice. Enchantments were a tricky business and often when most magelings started dabbling in it, they couldn't manage much more than produce a few untarnishing charms that would last maybe a few months before losing its potency. Oddly enough, of all things, this was the one subject that Holmes and Watson proved to be equally gifted at. Watson had become quite accustomed to being outshined by his prodigy level friend and never begrudged Holmes for his capacity to perform more precise and potent spellcasting, which his friend could apply in new and innovative ways, but the distinction was still glaringly present. It was to the delight of both of them to discover Holmes' single-minded focus and persistence could be matched by Watson's steady patience and care when putting in the long hours required layering the spells necessary to cast a proper enchantment.

In the month preceding the upcoming Winter Solstice celebrations, the two of them hardly spent any of their free time together, which was nearly unheard of since the commencement of their unlikely friendship.

Watson wanted his gift to be a surprise.

Holmes wanted his to be impressive.

After the celebrations, where some of the apprentices illegally transmuted the magelings' wine into absinthe, Holmes and Watson quietly slipped away and ascended to the flight tower. Neither of them spent much time there. Holmes figured he could always learn to transform into a bird or teleport and Watson was far too practical to risk his life over a foolish stunt when he could ride on a ley line. However, for this occasion both of them mounted the some, five hundred and eleven steps (a fact only known by Holmes, of course, even if he had only climbed two hundred and forty-four of them once before). The top of the tower was entirely open to the sky, revealing the massive expanse of stars and the three moons that held dominion over the heavens. The white face was full, the red moon waning, and the black moon—though only ever but an empty hole amongst the multitude of stars—had just begun a new phase. (1)

Watson, in what Holmes deemed a paroxysm of sensational romanticism, was the one to suggest it. Holmes went along with it because the solstices, along with the equinoxes, were the only times of the year where all three moons were present and a blessing of three would certainly serve better than a pair. It was perfectly logical and not at all poetic and not a little heroic, Holmes insisted emphatically.

Thus, they sat before each other on the snow dusted flagstones of the platform, breaths coming out in continuous streams and puffs. They had both cast warming spells before they had stepped out, creating a thin level of insulated heat only a spare few millimeters from the surface of their skin. It required a certain amount of conscientious thought to maintain its presence, but it was steadily becoming second nature to them to reach for that abstract yet constant presence that was magic.

Watson reached into his trouser pocket and drew out a brown box that was a little larger than his palm. It wasn't wrapped as was custom, but was held shut by a length of silvery cord and was decorated in a myriad of spidery script that was just a hint rounded and maybe just a touch more angular than was uniform, meaning it was done in Watson's unique hand. Watson had a talent, though considered old fashioned, in written spellcrafting and often toted about a parchment case containing preformed spells and illusions that he could use without expending any immediate energy. He was hardly ever seen without a quill or loose sheaf of parchment.

Holmes nodded at them. "Concealing charms and bound with a strand of vulpix mane. I am flattered, it was very cleverly done."

Watson mouth ticked in a self-deprecatory half-smile. Holmes was using his, 'You are smart, but I am still smarter' tone of voice. "What have you deduced, then?"

"Earlier this month I had noticed from various specimens making appearances upon your vestments and skin, indicating that you had been spending a lot of time outdoors, in a variety of places. Dried mud from the streambed, some samples of flora from the surrounding forest, and rock dust from the quarry all led me to infer that you had been searching for suitable materials that would sustain a strong or long term enchantment. The variance in locations would also suggest that you were searching for materials that would carry different elemental significance."

"And your conclusion?"

Holmes crossed his arms about his chest a little churlishly. "I could not adequately draw one. Even at our level, there are only a few spells that utilizes the potential of several elements at once and none of which would be considered an appropriate gift unless of course, you wished to give me a prosperity charm to hang above the crib of my first born child. It is thoughtful, but a little premature. I am not yet eleven, after all and would also depend whether or not I could stand a girl long enough to get one."

Watson laughed, holding onto his sides to keep them from splitting open at the seams.

Holmes sniffed, pretending as if he was deeply offended. "Not everyone can be caught under a sprig of mistletoe every time a pretty girl is around, you know."

Watson blushed at that, but soldiered on. "Well Holmes, it is fortunate then that I did not choose that particular enchantment and although I am sure you would prefer to continue your line of brilliant deductions, perhaps, just this once, you can forgo your need for mental stimulation and simply open the bloody thing."

Holmes laughed in his own private way where his breath came out a little sharper and his smile stretched slowly but surely across his face. "Very well, Watson."

Holmes cupped his hands, palms up at about chest level and waited. Watson brought his own hands together until the box sat flat upon his palms and lifted it towards his face. He took a deep breath and blew it out in the direction of the box. The moisture in his breathe condensed in the chilly air, creating a fog which he gathered around the bottom of his box like a cloud and sent it wafting gently over into Holmes' waiting hands. The cloud dissolved as it touched down on its destination.

With infinite care and gentleness, Holmes undid the tie of vulpix mane and slowly removed the lid. His hand darted into the box and withdrew an understated, but elegant bracelet of black leather that was weaved through with perfectly symmetrical stone beads that met in the center which held a single, shining metallic bead, slightly larger than the rest that seemed to vibrate to life underneath his touch, causing the other beads to hum in sympathetic response.

Holmes' fingers instinctively curled possessively around his gift as he looked up to stare in numb amazement at his friend. "This isn't a standard shield bracelet. It's better. More."

Watson nodded. "The steel piece holds the main enchantment for the shield. From the original portion of steel, I separated tiny fractions of it and placed them inside each of the stone beads. Like you had deduced, I harvested stones that had elemental significance so that the central protection spell would be extended to each element: water, earth, fire, air, light, darkness, spirit, and some others of course."

"Thaumaturgy," Holmes identified immediately, "the principle of manipulating smaller parts to create larger effects." He looked down at the beads. "Discounting the actual shield bead, there are thirteen, the only number at which magic can be disrupted or blocked." (2)

"And _with_ the last bead," Watson added softly, "it makes fourteen, the number of letters which comprises your name."

Holmes swallowed and fastened the bracelet to his left wrist, his shield arm. He looked into his friends eyes with a measure of both heavy emotion and seriousness. "I would like to give you your gift now, Watson."

Watson, who had understood Holmes from the very beginning, understood this as well and merely raised his hands to his chest without further comment.

Holmes breathed into his cupped hands like he was warming them and with each breath a flare of bright, iridescent light shined through the clefts of his hands. When he released them, a thin, serpent-like dragon composed of living flame erupted out of it and flew with liquid grace towards Watson's hands. He felt no pain when it landed, coiling around itself and burned into a single orb of pure white light that dimmed gradually, revealing a strangely bright, pale yellow coin that shined brilliantly in the wake of the light as well as from the glow cast by the moons.

It seemed to fit perfectly in his hand and weighed just as comfortably. The side Watson could see was covered in a tightly packed carving of strikingly precise patterns of sigils. He turned it on its other side. This side bore no sigils and was almost stark in comparison, though beautiful in its boldness. Embossed towards the top in ornamented lettering was JHW and beneath it a diminutive symbol that meant 'from' and SSH in less elaborate script. Between the two initials and in the very epicenter of the coin was a small, round dot that protruded somewhat from the surface and was the deepest blue imaginable with a slight shimmering of gold inclusions that nearly mirrored the look of the starry sky above.

"Lapis lazuli, the result of crystallized marble from lime," Sherlock said.

"The stone that represents friendship and harmony," Watson murmured, as much in awe as his counterpart had been. He run his thumb over the smooth cut of stone, simultaneously feeling the texture of the sigils that covered the opposite side. "What is it, Holmes?"

"It's a lucky coin. No other but you may touch it. It will evade the hands of a stranger and will always return to you when lost. It will help you, ease your way and when you need it most, it shall serve you. Only once, but it has the ability to effect, to your advantage, some part of your fate."

"I can't believe it," Watson breathed.

Holmes grinned and jerked his chin towards the edge of the roof. "Try it."

Watson stood and tossed the thing as hard as he could. He saw it flash as it fell away into the darkness. For a moment, because of the sudden use of kinetic force, his insulation spell wavered. It made his hand cold and when he put his hand into his pocket, his fingers brushed along the amazingly familiar surface of the coin, like it had always been there his entire life. He enclosed it in his hand and brought it out again. It was blessedly warm and it thawed his hand in an instant.

"Holmes," Watson said, a little shakily, "…is this made from electrum?" (3)

Holmes shrugged. "Of course, for this type of enchantment to be sustainable, it would have had to be laid on a very rare and powerful object. My father owns quite a few of the only pieces found in the entire world. I merely took some liberty with my inheritance."

Watson fidgeted uncomfortably. "Surely a gift for me did not warrant—"

"Yes, it did," Holmes interrupted sharply. "What was the likelihood of our meeting occurring that day by the river?"

"I was lost," Watson replied weakly.

"New as you were, you could have wandered anywhere on the grounds and yet still you, the only person in the world possessing the right temperament to deal with me, stumbled across me and what's more, you befriended me. The odds were against me in every respect. All the circumstances had to be just so. I was granted pure luck when you became my friend. I wanted to pay you back in kind."

Watson reached over and hugged Holmes. "Happy Solstice, Sherlock."

Holmes, unaccustomed to the contact, merely leaned into his friend as reciprocation. "Happy Solstice, John."

"Do you want to make icicle swords and see who loses their warming spell first?"

"No purposeful stabbing, I'm tired of helping you practice healing spells."

~*~

The day they faced the Questing Beast, Holmes had stayed behind to delay it long enough for the Magus to arrive. He poured all his energy into the shield and hoped it would be enough to protect him. In the past, Watson's shield bracelet served Holmes well, but the Questing Beast smashed it to pieces…

…all except for one last bead.

It preserved just enough life in Holmes for Watson to save him.

~*~

When Watson is twenty-seven and ships off to Afghanistan, he brings his lucky coin with him.

He's had it as long as he could remember, ever since his boarding school days. It was a rare Greek coin and for the life of him, he couldn't remember who it was that gave it to him. For all he knew, he could have picked it off the ground, but he figured the thing was must be special just because he had held on to it for so long. Through boyhood mishaps and the carelessness of his teen years, the coin had remained with him.

It was an odd little thing. Once, when he had nearly been victim to a pickpocket, a corner of it had sliced the would-be thief's hand when the edges had always ever been smooth to the touch. Sometimes too when he stared at it long enough or looked at it in low light, it seemed to look entirely different. It was the perfect size and weight to perform sleight-of-hand tricks. Watson always had a strange affinity for street magic. His fingers moved with a certain deftness that made him sure that he had been born with them that way or at least, he had always been able to perform the delicate palming and vanishing techniques that would help him later on when he became a surgeon.

He would have been remiss if he did not go to war with his lucky coin in his pocket.

That was what he thought until after tying a tourniquet for a wounded soldier, the coin inexplicably rolled out of his breast pocket of his uniform. When he reached forward to pick it up he was shot simultaneously in the left shoulder and thigh. What he did not realize, what he could not grasp was that if he had been standing just a little straighter, the bullet would have taken out his heart and if he had not leaned just so, his subclavian artery would have been severed. The pain had been excruciating and the wound would cripple him for the rest of his days, but given the circumstances he had been granted a measure of luck.

He had somehow had the presence of mind to pocket the coin despite his wound. He would never understand why it bore a hole in the middle of it.

~*~

On the other side of the Veil, Holmes is about to be received into the ranks of Magus when he feels an odd tingle emanating from his breast pocket. He removes a small silk pouch from his pocket and dumps out the contents into his hand. A few crumbled bits of rock and one dented steel bead falls out. He shifts the rock dust around and finds a round fragment of a deep blue and gold speckled gemstone nestled in his palm.

He knew then that it was time to leave this world and fulfill a promise he had made a long time ago.

He had never bothered to tell Watson that besides the enchantments he had layered down for luck, he had placed tracking and monitoring spells as well.

* * *

(1) _The white, red, and black moons are a tip of the hat to the three moons of Krynn that represented the three patron gods of magic and the three sides respectively (light, neutral, dark) from Weiss and Hickman's Dragonlance Chronicles._

(2) _Thaumaturgy on its own is the capability of a saint or magician to perform miracles or 'wonderworking'. Thaumaturgy used in the voodoo concept (small representation affects the whole) is an idea adapted from Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series. Great series and most influential on this collection._

(3) _Electrum is a real naturally occurring alloy of gold and silver with trace amounts of copper and other metals. It was used as early as Old Kingdom Egypt, ancient Lydia and of course, most known for being used to mint Greek coins. _


	9. di Immortales

_Magic Arc _

_Dedicated to Rachel Indeed, whose comment inspired this chapter._

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Sherlock Holmes was in shock. Throughout the cab ride and his admittance into the club premises, his usually quick witted brain had temporarily frozen. A great many things had occurred after his crossing that were wholly unexpected. He had not expected to find Watson so soon, for instance or the strange innovations and technologies that existed here. However, all these things could not compare to his reaction garnered from receiving a single, terse invitation that morning because for all the unexpected things that this world brought, a letter from his brother was not something he was not expecting at all.

He passed by a sitting room filled with dark clad gentleman, the silence among them almost a presence of its own. Shock or not, his memory was as sharp as ever and he instantly recognized three of the gentlemen present. Two of them were acquaintances of his father and the other was an ex-dean at the sister Academy to the west. They were Magus, all of them, confirming what he suspected when he crossed the threshold. There was magic here and it was old.

He was led to a visitor's room where his brother stood with his back to him, facing the window out into the London streets. Holmes halted in the middle of the room. Though he had already ascertained all of the necessary data to determine that the man before him was irrefutably his brother, he was wary of his intentions for being here and thus allowed for Mycroft to make the first move.

"This was a reckless and rather foolish use of the Ascension ceremony, brother mine," Mycroft said, still staring out the window. "And here I thought your attention to your studies was driven by ambition. Not even I had been offered reception into the ranks of Magus until I was nearly upon my thirtieth year. A waste, to be sure."

"I do not agree," Holmes replied.

Mycroft finally turned to face him. "You have been exiled. Have you even considered, just for a moment, the serious consequences of your actions?"

"I have. I lose very little from being barred return through the Veil. Since the death of our mother, Father has been putting more and more of his efforts into the war in the Heavenly Realms. Now that I have discovered the location of your secret research, I suppose relations with you shall not be as strained as I would have anticipated. I in fact gain the most from remaining here. I had never aspired to teach or act as a caretaker while in the ranks of Magus. At least here, I may be with Watson and I am in no danger of squandering my intellect even if I must restrain my other gifts."

"You have met with the Keepers, then?"

"Yes, they found me shortly after the crossing and outlined the punishments of which could be inflicted upon me if I were to break the provisions of my welcome. So yes, dear brother, I do think I grasp the consequences of my actions. Some of the tortures they described were not at all pleasant."

Mycroft sighed at the biting tone his younger brother employed. "This is not a nice place, Sherlock."

Holmes frowned at his brother's sudden change in mood. "It is as good as any other, I would expect. It is not so very different."

"You have not been here long enough. You do not yet realize. You have seen of course, passing in the streets and such, the age of some of the people here?"

"Yes," Holmes answered, reluctantly as he tried to understand what point his brother was trying to emphasize.

"They are old. They age and eventually time will wear away their bodies and minds. It happens to everyone born in this world. You have not yet felt its effects, but you will start to. In a few years, you will notice the change. The flow of magic here is stunted. You still have a connection to it because you were born with it and you have trained enough to reach for it, but here, its presence in your blood is not enough to supersede the effects of time like it did in our world. Those without magical ability in our world perish prematurely because of the inability of their magic to sustain a renewable life force. That is why we send them here."

The blood in Holmes' veins turned to ice. "But the Magus I saw in the drawing room, why are they here? What is this place?"

"This, Sherlock, is where immortals come to die."

* * *

_A/N: Dear readers, the easiest way for me to come up with ideas for the Magic Arc is when you guys drop in a review with a helpful little, "I wonder…" think-out-loud speculations which allow me to bounce around ideas. I still have a small bucketful of half-baked ideas whirling around me head, but I always appreciate more fuel for the fire. Thanks all!_


	10. Fools for Love

_Magic Arc_

_(Non-slash unless you really want it to be)_

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"Holmes, I am not kissing you in order to satisfy your curiosity."

"It is a legitimate, though admittedly archaic—"

"No kissing magic, that's final!"

Holmes looked peeved. "Watson, don't be ridiculous. It's the only way."

Watson responded by glowering belligerently and crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Holmes sighed dramatically. "Honestly Watson, it isn't as if you haven't seen the other boys doing it."

"If you think that is a convincing argument then I must say that you are finally beginning to lose touch with reality."

Holmes leaned back, exuding an air of detached indifference. "Fine, I had only mentioned it in the hope that perhaps you would agree without the need to wholly and utterly destroy your protests, but as you have rejected it I feel no remorse in inflicting it. I have but one word to say to you, Watson," Holmes speared his friend on the end of his quicksilver stare, "Soulgaze."

Watson paled and Holmes knew his success was imminent.

"I agreed to your experiment and now the both of us will have to live with those images for all eternity. At least in this I have done a thorough amount of research."

Watson bit his lip and nodded reluctantly.

Holmes presented his hand expectantly. Watson mirrored the movement. They each murmured the appropriate word and brought their hands together. A spark shot up his arm with surprising intensity and despite his misgivings, Watson felt a small measure of curiosity on the proceedings. They both leaned forward, lips puckered slightly, meeting gently, chastely.

Of course if anyone were to come across them, it would certainly not look that way.

"John Watson, how dare you!"

Watson broke the kiss and whirled around, eyes wide and decidedly guilty.

Blue eyes blazed, surrounded by a wild halo of golden hair. "I knew it! I knew you loved your friend more than me! It's over!"

"Clarissa, wait!" Watson called over the sounds of his friend's ungenerous laughter. "Give me that book, Holmes." Watson wrested it out of the grip of his still twitching friend, searching through the pages. "There is nothing about healing kisses in here!"

"Oh, I'm sure there some truth to it," Holmes said, grin plastered on his face. "Dear me, is today the first of April? I had barely noticed."

"Well done, Holmes, well done," Watson groused. "Excuse me, I have _mature_ obligations to attend to"

As soon as Watson was out of sight, Holmes let the grin slip from his face, wiping his lips with the back of his hand in distaste. He couldn't understand the appeal to the activity. However, he was less inclined to tell Watson that Clarissa Ward's family was well known among the higher circles for their singular talent in the delicate nuances of mind manipulation. He could have usurped Ms. Ward's control of his friend's mind with his own, but refused to violate Watson's privacy in such a matter. Instead he concocted this rather ill-conceived plan and allowed the chips to fall as they may.

He only regretted utilizing Watson's guilt over the Soulgaze incident. There was little chance he could use the justification a second time when he proposed summoning animal spirits.


	11. Another Reichenbach

_Magic Arc _

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"Holmes!" Watson called, yelled, screamed. "Holmes!"

The was no answer besides the sounds of water crashing on the rocks hundreds of feet below and it was exactly what Watson had feared the most.

He sank to his knees, the pain in his leg infinitesimally small compared to the one building within his chest. His bare hands scrabbled at the rocks, trying futilely to find purchase.

"No. God, no."

The sobs came first, dry, horrible gasps of breaths that refused to come. Then the tears began to fall. After all they had been through. After all the sacrifices they had made for each other. For all the services they paid to this world, this is how it repaid them. He stood numbly, vision obscured with tears. He could remember his friend's smile and ever inquisitive eyes, features that had not changed despite those dreadful years they had spent apart. A hundred memories dashed before his mind's eye, from this world and the first. He remembered winning the Spring Games together and their first case.

When it became too much to bear, he simply wiped away all thought from his mind and stepped off the edge.

He stood suspended in midair for a single, fluttering heartbeat…

…and continued to do so for several more minutes.

Watson stared at the empty air beneath his feet, at the water churning hundreds of feet below him. His heart leapt for a second time as he whipped his head around, eyes searching. He stared at the ledge he had stepped away from and observed the small pools of molten silver where his tears had landed. His magic was intact, meaning…

Holmes stepped towards him with easy confidence, as if an invisible path existed in the expanse of the Reichenbach falls.

"Watson, I must go. In order to destroy Moriarty once and for all, I—" he broke off, but began again in a stronger tone. "The Keepers are willing to grant me pardon, I did a great favor for them after all, but I will have to spend some time away, perhaps to join my father in the Heavenly Realms. I will come back as soon as I am able. Do you understand?"

Watson nodded.

"Step back, dear fellow, I don't want you to accomplish what you had intended a moment ago when I am forced to leave."

Watson obediently stepped back onto the solid ledge. He felt his own motion arrestation spell disperse. He stared at Holmes, not daring to look away. He eyes stung and when he blinked, Holmes had vanished. An unpleasant electric shock tore through his system and he blacked out a moment later.

When he woke up, he was back in bed in his Suisse hotel. It was dark. Without thinking, he chanted a quick succession of rough syllables and waved his hand towards the grate. Nothing happened. No fire leapt to his call.

He felt cold. What was real and what was not? Was magic real? Was Holmes?

He scrabbled for a match to light the candle by his bedside. Instead, his fingers curled around a smooth object, a rock that had acted as a weight for a small square of thin paper. By this time his eyes had adjusted to the dim light and he could barely make out the single word scrawled across it.

_Believe._

When he read the word, the stone in his hand burst into an achingly familiar pale blue light.

Watson smiled and believed. The light grew brighter.


	12. Always, Forever

_Magic Arc_

_Holmes and Watson have known each other a long time. ~For Pompey  
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"Stay close to me, son."

The little boy holds on tight to his father's hand and closes his eyes against the myriad of colors and the bright flashes of light that he can still see through his eyelids. The lights and colors are called the Veil. His father promised he would take him through it someday, but today they only glimpse it in passing. For a moment he feels like his nose and mouth are full of water, but it goes away and he and his father are standing on a muddy road in front of a shed or at least, he thinks it is a shed. It looked a lot like the shed he had at his house and the one in the back of the Academy, which was like his other home because he was there so often, but he could not be certain. He did not have enough data and one should never make assems…somtions—guesses without proper data.

The boy's shoes squelched in the mud and he wrinkled his nose in distaste. They were new shoes. All his clothes were new. He wore short pants now and a jacket, not the skirts and tunics of very small children. He was very proud of his clothes and took very good care of them. He tried to ignore it. Instead, he began to make fer…furries—smart guesses about the things around him, while his father knocked politely on the door. There were toys in the yard, wooden swords and a tin soldier. They were toys typical of boys. There must be boys here. The wooden swords were made out of sticks and the tin soldier was half covered in rust. There must not have been a lot of money for toys.

The door opens and there is a man standing there, who is shorter than his father, but still tall. His father shakes hands with the man. The boy could see a faint outline of a tattoo on the back of the man's hand. It was a star surrounded by a circle, a pentacle. He knew what it meant. It marked people who could not pass the test to become a Magus. While his father was exchanging pleasures…presents—boring talk with the man at the door, the boy peers out from around his father's legs and into the shed-like building. There is furniture and a kitchen and a stove and a lot of windows, not the things one would find in a shed. Therefore, it was not a shed. It was a house that was the size of a shed.

"…apologize, I haven't had time to hire a new nurse and he needs constant monitoring," his father said.

"No, no, it is fine. In fact, my younger son is about his age, though a little older I would expect. Perhaps the two of them could get acquainted while you interview Andrew," the man replied.

"That would be acceptable."

"John!" the other man called.

A boy emerges from a door off to the side.

"Son, could you watch young William while we—"

"Sherlock," the boy corrects the man.

"Ah, very well, young Sherlock, while Mr. Holmes talks to your brother."

The other boy nods and walks forward to take his hand and leads him to the yard in the back of the house.

"Hello. My name is John. I'm five, how old are you?"

"Four." Sherlock indicates the correct amount with his fingers. "You are wearing your brother's clothes. They don't fit you right," he says, knowing that most people are impressed with his smart guesses.

John blushes and fidgets with a button that is about to come off. Sherlock sulks a little that John is not impressed. Sherlock tries something different and pulls out the toy his mother gave him. It is a metal spinning top with scribbles all over it.

"Do you want to play?" he asks, indicating the top.

John nods.

Sherlock decides to be polite, like a gentleman and holds it out to John. "Here, you first."

John holds the top between his fingers and is about to twist it when Sherlock snatches it out of his hand.

"Not like that! Watch."

Sherlock places the top on the floor and taps it with his pointing finger. The scribbles glow white and the top rises to balance perfectly on its point. Sherlock raises his hand over it and thinks really hard and breathes a certain way and feels a certain way and the top begins to spin. It spins faster and faster. Sherlock can make it practically drill into the ground, but he guides it around with his hand, forcing the top to move at his direction. For a moment he closes his eyes, picturing every scribble of the top, how big it is, and what it's shaped like and when he twitches his hand, the top jumps up a few centimeters. He repeats it twice more before he lets it come to a stop.

"Like that. Do it like that."

"I don't know how."

"Try."

John taps it with his finger, but nothing happens.

"Here," Sherlock says impatiently and grabs the boy's hand and positions it over the top in order to balance it. "Think hard. Scrunch your face."

Sherlock demonstrates the proper thinking expression with his eyebrows knitted tightly together. John follows, the tip of his tongue sticking out from the side of his mouth.

"Want it. You want it to spin," Sherlock says, squeezing John's hand for emphasis before he lets go and sits back to watch the top.

John wants the top to spin. He really wants it to spin so he could play with the other boy. He thinks hard. The point where the top and his finger becomes warm and the scribbles splutter to life with a faint blue light. When he removes his finger, the top wobbles a little, but manages to stay balanced. He imagines it spinning and it begins to rotate and slowly, but surely it begins to pick up speed.

"Pass it to me."

John gently sends the top to Sherlock, who retakes possession of it and sends it whizzing back. John scoots back. Sherlock mirrors him. They repeat the movement every time they pass the top until they are sitting fifteen feet away from each other.

Inside the house, Mr. Holmes shakes his head. "I would have been happy to fund Andrew's schooling, but your son does not have the level of aptitude required to be sent to the Academy. I'm very sorry."

Sherrinford retreats towards the back door so he doesn't have to see three sets of disappointed faces. When he opens it, he's not nearly surprised as he should have been when he finds his son whooping loudly as he shoots his spinning top through the air like a shooting star. Sherrinford is about to intervene when the Watson's younger boy barely manages to stop the thing mid-flight and keep it spinning as it drops back to the ground.

"Ha!" the boy shot back with all the success and triumph such a small yet monumental accomplishment could incur.

Sherrinford stepped back into the house. "Mr. and Mrs. Watson, it seems I can be of service, after all."

Andrew glowered behind the backs of his ecstatic parents. He loved his brother, he always would, but when he was old enough it was with bitterness that he gained illegal passage through the Veil, trading his life of mediocre skills in his world to become a god in the next.

The Keepers destroyed him.

All the while, John attended the Academy and became friends with a boy whose father funded his tuition and who, when they had been impossibly young, helped grant him access to a future more wonderful than he could possibly imagine.

* * *

_According to Baring-Gould, Holmes' full name is Willaim Sherlock Scott Holmes. Hence the William reference even if Gould has since been disproved as not fully supported by canon._


	13. Spring Games 1

_Magic Arc, Spring Games arc_

_Everyone read up on their Greek mythology?_

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The Games were a grueling two week tournament held annually between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. It was fourteen days of nonstop challenges. It consisted of three elements: missions, where teams had to fulfill a task, battles, where teams either had to face each other or a Magus, and survival, the only goal being to last long enough to make it to the next mission or battle. The students did it for the opportunity to apply their magic in a practical arena and because the prestige was monumental. Anyone could join, regardless of age or skill level and it was the only time the four sister Academies would meet and compete against each other. Every student wanted their chance at victory.

As for the Magus, they knew that far away the war in the Heavenly Realms was still being fought…

And they would always need soldiers.

There could be teams up to five, although most preferred the traditional three. Holmes and Watson opted to enter as a pair, despite Watson's misgivings. Holmes argued that their established and well developed teamwork more than compensated for their disadvantage in numbers. Thus, Holmes packed his spell components and various foci, while Watson prepared his various scrolls and the supplies they would need for the two week period. Once you entered the tournament you never stopped competing. From start to finish, you were in it. The only way out was to fail or to win. Holmes never doubted which one it would be.

Two days into the tournament and they were going strong. They had defeated six opposing teams, including one of a full five and had successfully stolen one of the golden apples guarded by the many headed dragon that was curled around the tree's enormous trunk. Even Watson was beginning to believe they might make it to the end.

Five days into the tournament and they were beginning to tire. Sleep was nearly unheard of. They couldn't attempt watches anymore, exhaustion was too much of a battle to fight and once when they had both dozed off they had been attacked by horrible things in the dark that would have given them nightmares if they been able to sleep.

It was just bad luck when on the seventh day, they had to face Magus Odyne and her chimera. Usually Magus would not appear until the last few days of the tournament. The chimera was a big, hulking thing with the head and forelegs of a lion with the hindquarters of a horse and the wings of a Pegasus.

Holmes made a choice to ensure that victory would be met.

Every great player knows they must sometimes sacrifice their pieces.

So Holmes allowed Watson to simultaneously take on the chimera as well as the curse of crimson jaws sent by Magus Odyne. When the chimera's carefully filed claws tore at Watson's torso, exposing the bones of his lower ribs to the open air as his armored arm fended off the monster's fanged mouth, the partially countered curse hit him as well and three long gashes tore along the skin of his back from shoulders to waist like three invisible knives had slowly carved down his flesh. If he hadn't been able to mutter a partial counter curse, there would have been six stripes rather than three.

It took every ounce of self control Holmes possessed to ignore the ragged cry of pure agony and cast his spell the exact moment Magus Odyne released her curse. Seven bolts of electric green fire shot towards her. With quiet efficiency the Magus morphed the tail end of the final movements of her curse into a delicate shielding charm which formed into a shimmering half dome of iridescent blue light before Holmes' spell could reach her.

The moment they touched the barrier, the electrified flame immediately extinguished, but the solid metal spikes the spell had been attached to continued through and struck the Magus in four places, causing her to drop to one knee at the sudden blossoming of pain. Holmes followed through with a potent stun spell, which she managed to deflect, but was unprepared for when he transmuted the minerals in the earth into a crystal cage which entrapped her. Working hurriedly, Holmes drew a few simple containment runes with a piece of charcoal from his pocket, dropping it in his haste to finish and return to Watson.

To Watson's credit, the beast was already in its death throws when Holmes finally arrived, bleeding from massive wounds all over its neck and chest. Holmes only had to deliver a final shot between its eyes before it keeled over and died. Watson collapsed back to the ground in a heap after manipulating the air around him to maintain a semblance of flight in order to cast his burst spells.

Holmes dashed to his side, kneeling beside him and pulling out a vial of nectar which he splashed over the gaping wound in his side and some of the smaller cuts and abrasions littered about his body. Watson shivered, half in shock from the blood loss. Skin and muscles closed obediently as soon as the nectar made contact with it, but Watson continued to tremble, his eyes half closed and unfocused.

"Watson!" Holmes called imperiously. "Watson, wake up! The nectar will not work on cursed wounds. You have to fix it yourself. Watson! Are you listening to me? Watson!"

_God, was it worth it?_ Holmes thought desperately as he began to shake his friend roughly in an attempt to rouse him. _Had it been worth the sacrifice?_

Unable to think of an alternative and as desperate as he was Holmes dug his fingers into one of the gashes on Watson's back.

Watson screamed, eyes searching frantically for what had caused him so much pain. He took one look into Holmes' face and began chanting the healing spells that would seal some of the wounds and help replenish his blood.

Holmes sighed in relief.

Sometimes to win, a player has to sacrifice even his most valuable pieces.

But it certainly helped that Watson could take care of himself.


	14. Three for Sorrow

_Magic Arc Series_

_Because I have been sitting in the 24/7 section of the library for four hours and I need to post __**something**__. Yes, I will eventually finish the three part Spring Games Arc._

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There were but three moments in his entire life that Sherlock Holmes had ever shed tears.

The first time was when his mother died. The tears were not entirely for her death. He had known it was a long time in coming. If he were to shed tears, then he would have done so when the healer had first informed the family of her illness. He cried that day because he knew too much. He could see the change overcome his brother, see the distance in his eyes. He could see his father's intent in the way he packed a few of his most powerful devices, some of his most devastating tools, could see the resolve in the set of his shoulders.

Sherlock could see his family was growing apart, each to worlds unknown and he cried because he didn't know what to do about it. His Sight had always allowed him to find solutions to every problem, but that time either he could not see it or there was truly no way to fix it. Both answers were wholly unfavorable.

The second time was when he awoke after having glimpsed just the barest hint of what lay beyond the veil of death to find that Watson was unresponsive in the bed next to him. He did not cry just then. Perhaps he should have and every day after that he came to visit. Maybe then he could have shown more strength when Watson finally did awake, only to painfully discover he could not perform even the simplest forms of spell casting. As Watson attempted, over and over again, to call light to him, Holmes felt the tears slip down his face. He could see what was coming next and he wished for all the world he could not.

The third time—and thankfully the last because some things truly are not meant to change—was in that moment he shook hands with John Watson after eighteen years of separation, where despite his irrational hopes, recognition did not spark within his friend's eyes.

"How very strange," Stamford commented idly, eyes straying towards the nearby window. "It is raining outside."


	15. Spring Games 2

_Magic Arc Series_

_Spring Tournament Arc, Part 2 (of 3)  
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Ten days into the tournament and Watson was exhausted. He was so tired he could barely keep track of what he and Holmes had accomplished in the past few days. He could barely remember what happened in the last few hours. The differences between missions and battles were becoming indistinguishable. There was only survival and at the moment Watson was doing that rather badly.

Holmes and he had entered into a shadow realm. There were no discernable boundaries, no concept of space. There was a ground, but only because Watson was standing on something and there was light, but only because Watson wasn't totally blind.

The place was literally made of shadows.

And mirrors, thousands and thousands of mirrors.

They lay upon the floor, hung from an invisible ceiling on invisible wires, faced him from all directions, glinting, wherever he turned he could see his same drawn and apprehensive expression…except for in the ones where he was smiling or the ones where he was not present at all. The worst part about it was that sometime in the past hour he had lost Holmes in the darkness. He wasn't sure how they had become separated, but he suspected it had something to do with the mirrors that held the shadowy figures who flitted across their reflective surfaces.

There was a loud boom that sounded somewhere in the distance, causing some of the mirrors to sway on their invisible wires and another dozen to shatter from where they hung suspended in the nonexistent sky. Watson threw up a motion arrestation spell to keep a few from falling on him and ran blindly away from where the roar of who knows what was originating from.

"Watson!"

Watson gave a breathless cry of relief as he saw Holmes jogging towards him, limping slightly. They had barely survived a tumble off a cliff barely a day ago.

"I'm glad to see you, my friend," Holmes said, smiling distractedly as his quicksilver eyes flitted quickly first on his face, back towards the direction he had run from, and at several of the nearby mirrors. Watson could hardly spare the energy to muse as to what grand divinations Holmes was conjuring in his genius mind and was content to merely catch his breath.

"The feeling is mutual, Holmes. More so if you have thought of a way out of this wretched place."

Holmes flashed him a fierce grin. "I have indeed. You have perhaps observed the mirrors that show no reflection at all?"

Watson nodded tiredly, hoping that Holmes would not require him to do much more than play audience rather than try and exercise his mind like he was wont to do.

"Those mirrors resist the usual manifestation of reality, meaning that they can serve as doors between realms. I have found that with the correct combination of energy dispersal spells," Holmes demonstrated these on a nearby mirror, causing it to shift jerkily to the right, "we can move the mirrors without breaking them. If we were to arrange those mirrors into a prism formation and transform the reflection—"

"—into a door back," Watson finished somewhat impatiently. "Yes, yes, you are a marvel. Now, let's get started, please."

Holmes nodded and focused his attention on a nearby mirror.

The moment his back was turned, Watson cast a powerful transfiguration that would turn brick into dust. There was a moment where Holmes uttered a horrible screech of pain, his body shuddering, his appearance wavering, like his skin and face were shivering away from the flesh and bones beneath it before he literally exploded in a shower of gritty sand. Some feet away a mirror shattered, revealing another Sherlock Holmes, his hands outstretched as if he was pushing against an invisible wall. He pitched forward, but Watson was there in an instant to keep him from falling on the shards of broken glass strewn across the shadowed ground.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked.

"Yes," Holmes croaked. "Come, let's get to work. We're fortunate that my doppelganger revealed the method in exiting this realm before giving you an opportunity to dispatch him. I assume you figured out he was an imposter by scanning the creature's aura?"

"No, although next time I shall remember to do so," Watson replied between grunting out the correct incantation to force one of the mirrors into place.

Holmes automatically reached for the currents of air—although almost nonexistent in this realm—in order to guide the mirror more smoothly to the correct position, shooting his friend a curious look.

"Was it that the scar on my neck was displaced to the reverse side due to the mirror effect? Or perhaps that the left trouser leg was not the appropriate—"

"Holmes, I knew that…_thing_ was not you the moment it said it was glad to see me," Watson said, not looking at his friend as he started shifting a second mirror.

Holmes stared, selfishly glad Watson was unable to see how the remark affected him. "Watson, I know that…I am not forthcoming in expressing my aff—in those types of things, but you must know, surely, that I do indeed…The sentiments were not false."

Watson turned back to face his friend, unable to help the smile that gently tugged his lips at his friend's awkward address. "I know, Holmes and I know it well enough that you never have to say it aloud."

Holmes looked off at something in the distance. "You know me very well, John."

"And it's taken years of hard labor, to be sure," Watson said, seeking to lighten the mood somewhat. "By and by, how did the creature trapped you?"

Holmes' flush started somewhere above his collar, though his tone remained tightly controlled. "You were calling for help."

Watson smile widened. He knew, just as he knew Holmes was glad to see him even if he never said as much, that Holmes' admittance did not reflect that he did not trust in Watson's abilities to protect himself, but rather, that Holmes would rush in to save him, no matter what the circumstance or logic against it.

"Four days, Holmes. Four days until we win this tournament."


	16. Little Kids in London

_Magic Arc Series  
This is worst than crack!fic, this is incoherent heroine!fic.  


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"_Verto duos noceres in pusillus vergrandi inops liberi!"_

There was nowhere to run, no place to take cover against the oncoming spell in that tiny cement basement, and no time to form a counter charm. Out of pure reflex, Holmes and Watson only had enough time to grab onto each other before they were soon engulfed in a strange and maleficent green light.

The dark magician laughed maniacally. "Finally, I have found a way to render the great Sherlock Holmes completely powerless! I shall finally rule the criminal world and me and my brothers shall bring London to its knees!"

He thrust his wand at the heavy, metal door behind him, causing it to burst open dramatically, which he exited through and then sealed behind him by melting the hinges to globs of molten steel.

After a few moments, a faint rustling could be heard in the darkened basement.

Holmes pressed a hand to one of his aching temples, using the other to call a miniature sphere of wizard's light, which hovered obediently in the palm of his hand, its magically induced light casting away the shadows from the four corners of the room. He shook his friend's shoulder rather insistently, causing Watson to groan and reluctantly stir.

"Watson, are you alright?"

"I'm—Holmes!" Watson shot up, lifting himself up on wobbly arms and staring down first at himself and then at Holmes. "We're children again!"

Holmes frowned at the slim and almost delicately petite hand that held up the wizard's light. "So it would seem."

"What was Mycroft thinking sending us against—my moustache!" Watson rubbed his sleeve over his smooth upper lip. "It's gone!"

Holmes emitted a quick bark of laughter. "Of course it is, no matter how masculine you are destined to be, I do not think any nine year old could maintain a credible amount of facial hair."

"Nine?!" Watson exclaimed, wincing at the squeak of his pre-pubescent voice.

"Yes, although I estimate my own age to be around seven years and eleven months."

"That would mean Moore was able to reduce our age over twenty years! He shouldn't have been able to perform magic at this caliber."

"No, he couldn't have," Holmes agreed grimly. "I checked him with my Sight. He isn't above a grade six magician. The wand," he murmured pensively, "he must have been supplied by a first if not zero grade magician to craft it beyond its focal properties, but no matter." Holmes grinned fiercely, a gesture Watson instantly recognized from his vague and muddied, still healing memories of his time before. "Both Moore and his mysterious supplier have made a gross miscalculation. Under the Charter set down by the Keepers and High Guardians of this world, immortal or empowered beings are not allowed to carry out an intervention unless they have first been transgressed upon without provocation. In the event of such a thing occurring, the injured party is allowed to carry out an intervention up to and one grade above the level of power used against them. Moore performed a third grade enchantment. Do you know what that means, Watson?"

Watson smirked. "We are definitely not powerless."

"No, in fact," Holmes ignited his sphere of light into a red hot ball of fire and expanded it to the size of a hefty melon, "we no longer have to hold back."

He released the fire ball, not towards the metal door, but the cement wall, which blasted apart with devastating force. When they stepped through Holmes' improvised doorway, Watson released the transmutation spell he had been holding and immediately the side of the building that had been demolished repaired itself very neatly, not a speck of dirt out of place. Mycroft's meticulous planning was beginning to shine through.

Holmes couldn't help but laugh. It felt good at last to be able to release some of the pent up energies inside him. It had only been a month since Watson's powers had reawakened and during that year he had spent with his old friend, who had been so agonizingly changed and yet painfully the same, it had taken everything in him to restrain his natural abilities. But now he was free and Watson was by his side, fresh faced and exactly as he remembered him all those years ago, before years of separation, war, and sickness.

Holmes made to go forward, eager to pursue the hunt, but felt Watson hesitate a little behind him.

"Watson, whatever is the matter?"

"My trousers don't fit."

In fact, none of their clothes did. Holmes' collar and tie practically drooped halfway down his chest.

"Well, just take them off then."

"Holmes, I am not facing Moore in a duel without wearing trousers!"

Moore may not have left them helpless, but he at least succeeded in delaying their efforts by a half hour at least. Mass reduction spells do not work on the multiple weaves of delicate fabrics.

~*~

Thus, twenty-seven minutes later, the dastardly Moore found himself confronted by two diminutive figures, barefoot and wearing shirtsleeves that went down to their knees which they had tied off with belts around their waists like Greek tunics and oversized waistcoats that practically trailed on the floor like capes.

Moore nearly started laughing at the ridiculous scene the two made, but ceased instantly when Watson stooped down quickly to put a hand on the earth and with the other, snapped his fingers causing the revolvers in the hands Moore's men to be ripped out of their hands and become glued to the earth as Watson manipulated the earth's natural magnetic pulses. Holmes then simultaneously prepared two entirely different spells in each of his hands and unleashed one after the other.

~*~

Professor Moriarty, formally Magus Moriarty, pulled away disgustedly from his gazing pool.

"That fool! Everything is ruined!"

"It was an admirable plan, master," his familiar hissed from where it slithered along his wrist and forearm.

"I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for those meddling children and their magic," he howled, enraged (and unbeknownst to him, uttering the phrase that would inspire and be used repeatedly in a show featuring a talking dog and a gang of teens sometime in the next century).

~*~

Holmes and Watson ducked in the alleyway adjacent to their rooms in Baker Street.

"Are you trying?"

"Yes, nothing is happening. You?"

"Useless."

"How long are we going to be like this?" Watson whined, kicking aside a newspaper with his foot.

"It was a major enchantment and despite it being cast on us rather than a fixed object, I suspect we are going to remain like this for another few days at least. Does it bother you?" Holmes asked as they slunk towards their apartment, avoiding the scandalized look they received from a passersby.

"Not really, it is merely strange, is all. Besides, how are we going to explain this to—ah."

When they entered the sitting room, they discovered two perfectly tailored child sized outfits laid out on the settee.

"You see Watson, there are some advantages to finding a landlady who is both a seer and a soothsayer. Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson came in. "Well, aren't you two just darling. Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why did you give me these?" Holmes questioned, holding up a pair of short pants. "I want proper trousers."

"Boys your age don't wear long pants unless attending mass."

"I don't care. These look ridiculous."

"You are acting very much like a spoiled brat, Mr. Holmes and I won't tolerate it. Besides, it will be very warm at the zoo tomorrow."

"The zoo!" Holmes exclaimed, incredulously.

"The zoo!" Watson exclaimed as well, though for different reasons.

"Yes, the two of you are going to the zoo. It is Saturday tomorrow and the zoo is where good boys," she eyed Holmes sternly, "ought to go."

Holmes tapped his barefoot against the carpet with some impatience. "And how do you suppose we should go without supervision. Are you going to take us?"

He knew better than to question its occurrence, but the logistics of the thing was well within his range of purview.

"Oh Lord no, my children are all well and grown and I need not go through it again, thank you very much. Don't fret, what will pass, will pass. Now, go take a bath. The two of you look a fright and make sure to wash your ears."

"Yes m'am," Watson replied respectfully.

Mrs. Hudson cooed and bestowed him an affectionate kiss on the brow and glaring at Holmes once more before leaving the sitting room.

Holmes stuck his tongue at Watson. Watson wondered if Moore's spell had effected their brains as well as their bodies.

Watson took his bath after Holmes, who surveyed him carefully from where he sat in his armchair, swathed in his overlarge dressing gown. He could see Watson's scar over the expanse of his back and shoulder, looking uglier and larger on the body of a child. Moore may have transformed their bodies, but no magician, no matter how powerful could turn back time. He hid his blanch just in time as Watson pulled on his own dressing gown and turned around to face him.

"What were you looking at?" he inquired, tying up the blue dressing gown as best as he was able.

"Your hair," Holmes replied smoothly. "I haven't seen it that color for a very long time."

Watson fingered the still damp locks of blond that would have browned in the coming years if he had really been a child. He grinned. "In addition, I am once again taller than you."

Holmes made a dismissive tone that meant, 'And then when I turned fifteen I towered over you forever more'.

"Let's play a game before dinner."

They spent a few hours augmenting marbles into miniature statuettes of animals, attempting to choose animals that would dispatch the animal made on a previous turn.

"Wolf." The marble quivered, melting into a little pool before forming into a howling canus lupus.

"Porcupine," Holmes responded, each individual tip of his marble creature's spines glimmering in the firelight.

"That doesn't work."

"Wolf gets infected from the open wounds from the spines, wolf dies."

"Manticore then, if we're in the realm of theory."

"Questing Beast. I win."

"No fair. Cheater."

"I am not unless superior intellect and imagination is cheating."

"It is. Have you used your superior intellect and imagination to think of someone to take us to the zoo tomorrow?"

"Uh huh."

~*~

"I cannot believe you convinced me to take you to the zoo," Mycroft grumbled, mopping his brow in the abnormally warm spring weather.

"Fair is fair, brother mine. You manipulated us without fair warning. Let's go to the giraffe house, John!"

"Why don't we visit the aquarium?" Mycroft suggested, noticing with a critical eye how many people were gathered around the nearby enclosures.

"Later," Holmes said impatiently before darting forward, leading Watson by the hand past the squeeze of people and leaving his brother quite behind.

"I wonder if they have a wider range of taste buds because they have longer tongues," Holmes wondered aloud, watching said appendage dart out to retrieve an apple from a zoo keeper's hand.

"If they do, I don't think it would be to taste different samples of dirt," Watson said.

"It's a useful test."

"Of course. Oh! Look Holmes, they have a lion."

They wandered to the next enclosure, able to get right up to the rim of the pit that kept the lion away from the streaming lines of prey that passed by on a daily basis.

Watson frowned. "It does not have any wings. Lots of animals in this world don't have any."

"I think the magic is what actually buoy their flight in our world," Holmes replied.

Watson looked down at the beast lying stretched out in languid repose and out of habit reached toward it with his mind and said, "_Hello, friend lion_."

'_Hello, young cub.'_

Watson started. He was so used to the animals here being psi-blind, including humans.

"_You can talk._"

'_Yes, I do not belong to this world, as you do not, young cub.'_

"Holmes, this is one of our lions."

"Oh? How did it get here?"

"_Friend lion, how did you come to be here?_"

'_I followed one of my brethren, not realizing that my form would be so startling here. A hunter caught me in fairness and I was obliged to remain in his charge, but I was brought here and I am still held to my obligation.'_

"He traveled through the Twilight with one of the smaller cats, not knowing that he would look like to the people here. Some trapsman caught him and he had to stay under the rules of engagement for prey and predators," Watson answered his friend.

'_Why do you and your brother cub stay here?'_

"_I was brought here. He came for me and was exiled for it_._ Now I stay here with him._"

'_I see. Brothers of courage do not abandon each other. It is what makes them brave, after all.'_

"_Yes_."

"Holmes," Watson looked at his friend imploringly, "can we free him?"

Holmes shrugged. "If you wish."

It was then that Mycroft was finally able to part his way through the crowd, not in little part due to the gentle mind suggestion he planted in those around him. It also became increasingly easy as the crowd suddenly started fleeing in all directions as stairs made from solid ice appeared miraculously within the pit, allowing the lion to dart gracefully up them and out of his protective enclosure. He roared for the simple sake of doing so and bound away towards the shade of an adjacent building and slowly melted into the shadows and was gone.

Holmes and Watson were in the process of waving good-bye to the beast when Mycroft seized them by the backs of their shirts, melting their ice bridge with a stern stare, and began dragging them out of the park, ignoring his brother's protests that they had yet to see the reptile house.

"I took you to the zoo expecting you to _behave_, not liberate the animals!"

"But he was a _magic_ lion!" Watson insisted indignantly.

"There are no such thing as magic lions," Mycroft corrected hastily, observing a family of whom the mothe and father were sniggering loudly.

"Technically there are not. However, all cats in general live part way within the Twilight realm and therefore can bypass the problems of passing through the Veil," Sherlock reasoned soundly.

The family were now surreptitiously edging away, dragging their children with them.

"You are both—we are no longer going to get ice cream."

"But Mycroft!"

"No, you have both behaved very irresponsibly today."

"Come now, you've made Watson cry!"

"I am not! I'm merely…disappointed is all."

"Mycroft!"

"No!"

"But ice cream!"

"No!"

"But—!"

"Fine," Mycroft growled, now thoroughly convinced he would never pass his genes to any little beast. "We are going home and maybe, just maybe if the two of you can remain_ quiet_ we can get ice cream."

"Yes! I knew you could not—"

"Shh, Sherlock. I want to get ice cream."

"Don't worry, old chap. We can always threaten to tell a police officer he threatened to abuse us."

"That…isn't very nice, but a good idea."

'Dear God,' Mycroft thought, 'this is the reason why people come here to die.'

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A/N: Incoherency and crack brought to you by pain meds, which are allowing me to breathe without feeling the two cracked ribs I received while ice skating last weekend (which were brought on by unwise daringness, not clumsiness). No, seriously. This all hazily made sense in my head a few hours ago, but as I read it over only 'WTF' came to mind. I hope everyone enjoyed it nonetheless.  
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"_Verto duos noceres in pusillus vergrandi inops liberi!"_

_Latin Translation: Turn these two nuisances into very small, tiny, helpless children! _


	17. Spring Games Finale

_Magic Arc _

_Spring Games, Conclusion  
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"The sky, it's…"

"Brown," Holmes finished grimly.

Watson glanced at his friend, whose face was still upturned, gazing at the brown and reddish-yellow haze that hung above the city. It was unnatural, choking, and ugly.

"What is this place?" Watson muttered, trying and failing to hide the hint of disgust he felt standing amongst a pile of refuse, the stench of who knows what cloying to the alley walls.

"I don't know," Holmes replied.

It was true, he did not know, but he suspected and more often than not, his suspicions proved correct. This time, he hoped he was wrong.

"I don't understand. Why would they bring us here? Not to mention we can no longer use our magic." Watson turned towards Holmes, face pinched with worry. "Could this have been a mistake? Have we somehow left the tournament?"

Holmes shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling at a heap of papers that lay in a sodden mass, their strangely uniform letters practically illegible. He wished he could reassure his friend, that he had an ounce of the certainty he usually possessed. He had theories of course, but all of them were hardly worth mentioning, only either half-formed or without the necessary evidence that would confirm its validity. He had no more an idea than Watson had of why they had suddenly awoken wearing clothes, almost alien compared to the light tunics and heavy stoles they had worn since commencing their magical studies. Though the ones they had been wearing were practically in tatters, their clothes had been clinging in some places and flowing where necessary, allowing for a full freedom of movement when performing spell casting. The clothes they were in now were uncomfortable and unwieldy. Cuffs and collars restricted their wrists and had them effectively choked, a feeling further emphasized by the wad of fabric tied like a noose around their necks. The craftsman responsible also seemed to have an unhealthy fixation with buttons.

Not having an inkling of the reason for any of this, Holmes settled on something he did know.

"Our magic isn't fully incapacitated. It only seems like we have the inability to manifest it. For one, I still have my Sight."

Watson raised his brow. "Oh? What can you See?"

Holmes shook his head. "There is something wrong. I cannot—there is simply _too much_. It's almost as if the flow here is as muddy as the air." Some of the frustration he felt bled into his tone, but he tamped it down as he turned to fully face Watson. "And you, can you transform?"

Watson's gaze became unfocused for a moment and his hair seemed to prickle, a snarl building within his throat, and for maybe a tenth of a second his eyes turned from lapis blue to golden amber, but it cleared just as quickly and left Watson doubled over and panting from the effort.

"It's there, but I can't seem to draw enough energy to maintain it," he replied, still trying to regain his breath.

"I suppose we will have to—" Holmes broke off as soon as he heard the heavy and irregular footfalls of a stumbling man coming towards them from the opposite side of the alleyway.

The two of them were immediately on the alert, shoulders brushing together as they adopted duel defensive fighting stances. They were not sure how much of a threat the man posed or what they would do, but they had not lasted until the final days of the tournament for not taking appropriate precautions.

The man had taken perhaps another four or five lumbering steps before collapsing sideways on a pile of empty crates. The man was young, only another few years towards his thirtieth year. He seemed to be of obvious wealth, whereas Holmes' and Watson's clothes were spun of a rough wool, his were of a shiny silk. They relaxed slightly, but crept forward at a wary pace.

What little magical skills they had left simultaneously alerted them that this was no ordinary drunk lately come from the nearby pub. In fact, he was most certainly dead.

Watson knelt by the horrifically fresh corpse, suppressing the urge to purge his stomach, closing his as he touched his fingertips lightly over several vital points of the human body to better take in the extent of the damage, not because he could not bear to look at it. Surely, not. "No physical injuries, nor alcohol in his blood. He is dead, yet…" his fingers paused above the man's brow and pressed slightly over his temple, "…there's something else. Something lingers."

Holmes knelt as well, nudging Watson slightly to signal for him to withdraw his hands. "Let me look."

He opened his Sight and hissed at what he saw.

"It appears as if he has been mauled," Holmes struggled to find the words to adequately describe it, "like he's been ravaged, drained."

"Ah, then that would explain the state of affairs elsewhere." There was a distinct ring of wry humour in his friend's tone.

For a fraction of a second Holmes gazed upon his friend's countenance before he fully withdrew his Sight and saw him as he always had since their fateful Soulgaze.

The expanse of downy feathered wings never seemed so befitting on another person.

The second came to a close and it was the ordinary fifteen year old John Watson before him once more. Brown hair now, not blond. In his other form he retained a shock of golden straw hair.

Heedless to his friend's musings, Watson rocked back on his heels and stood up, brushing down his trousers. "A vampire, then."

"A succubus to be precise," Holmes confirmed, also rising to his feet, nodding absently as he continued to stare down at the body, "or to be fair, it could have just as easily been an incubus. Vampires aren't often picky when it comes to their meal choice."

"What are we going to do with him?"

"Let's find someone who can help us."

They wandered out from the alleyway and onto a street. Carriages and cabs rolled by tugged along by horses. They had never seen such things before, but it was far from shocking. A wooden box mounted on wheels, tugged by a horse was nothing. It was rather logical in fact. Had they seen a telephone, however…

"That man there," Watson pointed a man standing by a light pole as the, seeming to stand sentry, a mere observer to the passing crowds, "he's wearing some kind of uniform. Perhaps he is an authority figure."

Holmes agreed that they should talk to him and were soon crossing the street to talk with the man who was in his forties and had a rather grand mustache, something Holmes could not help but notice Watson eyeing with considerable interest.

The uniformed man spotted them as they neared and seemed to chuckle as he pulled his watch out of his pocket to check the time with a rueful shake of his head.

"Stars and stones," he murmured half to himself and half to the two boys, "right on time, down to the last second, just as the missus said."

"What do you mean, sir? Do you know us?" Holmes interrogated, though his tone remained neutral enough to sound polite.

"I do not know you, but I know _of _you. My wife Martha predicted you would be here at this exact time. She possesses a not inconsiderable gift of foresight. Young mages, are you? I am Sergeant Hudson and I will help you however I can," the man said rather kindly, wearing a frank and open expression that put them immediately at ease and assured them of his sincerity.

"Th-thank you, sir," Watson stammered past his surprise. "My name is John Watson and this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes. We are glad to make your acquaintance. Would you happen to know how we came to be here?"

Sergeant Hudson shook his head. "No, I'm sorry lad. I only knew that you would be here."

"There's a man in the alley that has been attacked by what we believe to be a vampiric entity. We left his body in the alley," Holmes said.

"Show me."

They led him back to the quickly cooling corpse. Sergeant Hudson made his own investigation, confirming the boys' story.

"What will you do?" Holmes asked.

Sergeant Hudson shrugged. "I will report the murder. There will be an investigation on the gentleman's stolen goods, his family will be informed and eventually the lack of evidence will lead to the crime remaining unsolved. That is the extent the police—What is that, you ask? We are the official peacekeepers and crimesolvers—will become involved."

"But what of the thing that did this to him?" Watson questioned incredulously.

"They don't exist."

"But you said—"

"People here don't believe they exist. They are the stuff of legend and myth, their existence is no longer acknowledged by the world at large. The old beliefs are gone. We have embraced science instead. If you go spouting about nonsense of demons sucking out people's life force through intercourse, they may not burn you as they did a century or so ago, but they will be tempted to send you to the nearest sanitarium or simply laugh at you."

"Science has its merits, I will own, but it is hardly a consolation when such creatures are feasting on your flesh," Holmes pointed out, matter-of-factly.

"Yes well, people see what they want to."

"Is that it? Is there nothing else to do?" Watson asked numbly.

"Of course not, old chap," Holmes reassured. "We know the truth and I am confident we can get to the bottom of this crime."

"Without magic?"

"We have our wits and perhaps the Magus will come for us, after all."

"In that case, I was bid to give you these," Sergeant Hudson said, drawing something from his belt. "Which of you is the elder?"

"I am," Watson replied reluctantly.

Sergeant Hudson nodded and turned to Holmes, presenting him with the well worn handle of a dagger from another age, though its blade was no more dull than the day it was first employed. His eyes glinted, "Some of us at least, have not forgotten the old ways. As for you, young Watson," Sergeant Hudson handed him that which Watson had never seen before, but knew instinctively was a weapon of some sort, "what I have given you is a gun and you must use it responsibly. A mistake could cost you dearly."

"How do you use it?" Watson shuddered. "What does it do?"

Sergeant Hudson showed him. Watson had never encountered something more despicable. He knew he could do terrible things with his magic, but the repercussions were beyond compare. To kill another with magic inevitably tainted and warped your very being, but with this gun he could take someone's life and that would simply be the end of it, he could walk away, changed but relatively unpunished. Worst yet, he could not take it back. Once he pulled the trigger, it was over. With magic there was always a few seconds where you could reverse what it is you wrought, but with this weapon it was not so. It was absolute.

Holmes' voice cut through his thoughts.

"Come Watson, I think I know where the vampire can be found."

"What have you deduced?" Watson asked automatically, the calming nature of his friend's confident habits shaking him from his dark musings.

"An inn very near water, a river most likely, heavily diluted. Moderate repute, ale of a surprisingly good quality." Holmes grinned, caught up in his one true pleasure. "Do you wish to ask how I know this?"

Watson sighed long-sufferingly. "At this stage of our friendship, I trust you implicitly and at this juncture of our fourteen day spree of sufferance I am far too lazy to argue. If we are to traverse up and down some dank river asking questions of foul bar patrons and getting ejaculated from every pub, by reasons I have previously stated, I will follow without question."

Holmes' exuberant energy lasted for several hours, persisting through being denied entrance to over half the taverns they went to investigate, being propositioned by irrefutable men and women alike, getting into a violent bar fight (his continuing cheer perhaps due to the fact it was Watson rather than he who received a black eye), and uncovering only the barest amounts of information until…

Until they entered an establishment called the Palace Pub and Inn and they saw a succubus sitting at an otherwise empty booth, a cigarette held delicately between her fingers as she absently counted the coins from her purse in blatant view. She had no reason to fear. A well fed succubus could snap a man's neck in half with the same effort a child snaps a piece of soft chalk.

How did they know she was a succubus? It wasn't because of a generous bosom, luscious curves, or a smile that was just so and a coy wink that suggested pleasures beyond the boundaries of imagination. It was because when they saw her, they thought sex, plain and simple. Complex human thought halted completely, replaced by baser urges, need. That was a succubus' power, their draw, but it took more than that to lure a man. To their bed, simple, but for them to open themselves enough for their psychic energy to be exposed to feeding there had to be more and for that, Holmes and Watson had to keep their wits about them.

They approached, slowly, tentatively, warily, but still irresistibly drawn. She was beautiful, in a way. Although possessing altogether plain features, they were presented more stunningly than the average woman, possessing eyes the deepest violet, the milkiest skin, the most unmarred and perfect complexion. She was old too, at least three hundred. And how many people had she fed from to stay alive for so long? It was that thought that kept their baser instincts at bay. The mere presence of them at all even with possessing such knowledge was evidence enough of her unique power.

"Predator—yes," Holmes said, recognizing the mild surprise in the fair woman's eyes, "we know your true nature."

"Hunters," she responded, a languid smile playing about her rouge lips, "though disguised as sheep and boys, no less. Please," she indicated the seats on the opposite side of the table, "sit."

They did and as Holmes brushed by to take his seat her she gave a sudden sniff as if sampling the scent of a particularly anticipated wine. Her eyes darkened from amethyst to the black of a winter night. "Heaven above, a _virgin_." She cocked her delicate brows, eyes only reluctantly breaking off their examination of Holmes to address Watson. "What is he, an offering?"

Watson coughed, blushing furiously. "No, uh, he is most certainly not."

Holmes sulked, the look he shot Watson twice as dour.

Watson coughed again, unconsciously shielding his burning cheeks with the rather sheepish shrug of his shoulders. "I was going to tell you Holmes. Really, it just…doesn't often come up in polite conversation."

"Indeed."

"How very sweet, a lover's spat."

"We are not!" the two of them shouted simultaneously.

The succubus shrugged, making even the slightest gesture look regal. "Fine, suit yourselves. If you aren't here for fun and pleasure, then what brings you to me?"

"How is the ale here?" Holmes asked.

"Exceptionally good, despite the venue," she answered frankly.

"You go to this place often?" Watson questioned.

"Sometimes."

"Last night? Earlier today, perhaps?" Holmes pressed further.

Her eyes flashed in a way that did not suggest sex at all, but death. "_Why_?"

"Because there is a man dead with psychic teethmarks and the physical evidence that would all seems to point to you." Holmes stared hard, hand gripping his knife beneath the table.

"What does he look like?"

"Are you saying you don't know him or that you didn't do it?"

"Both or perhaps simply the latter. Please answer the question."

"Mid-twenties, russet hair, thin face, an accountant's hands, average height, size ten shoes."

The succubus' lips pressed into a thin line. "He was a first time kill. I saw him for the first time and now, I suppose the last time, here, last night at the inn. And no, he was not mine. There are several of us that use this place as our hunting grounds."

"How do we know you're speaking the truth?" Watson asked.

"Because I will offer more of it. I am the eldest succubus currently residing in the area and I am therefore something of an overseer of the other vampires of my ilk. If we inhabit an area for a long period of time, we must be discreet and wise. You are not the only hunters. The Keepers watch closely and punish severely, but only if their laws are broken. When we feed it is _never_ until the death of our victims. If we killed off every time we fed, the river would be littered with bodies. It would be bad for our livelihoods and it would be bad for business. If we expect to live, we must only partake the barest minimum at a time and over a large selection of prey. Even the sheep would notice if we overindulged."

"Are you saying you have never killed one of your victims?" Holmes asked skeptically.

"No, but I will say that they do have a choice. Humans tend to corrupt themselves. They come back, they want more, offer their own souls, and we take, carefully, mind. If someone is dead, then there will most likely be more victims and therefore more hassle and above all, more danger. I want them gone, you wish to vanquish them. It's a veritable cornucopia of happiness all around."

"You know who it was that killed the man?"

"Yes."

"And you will help us capture the succubus who did it?"

"If by help, you mean provide information. Apart from that it seems my obligation is fulfilled."

"Then who and where might we find them?" Holmes asked, face grave.

True surprise shined through her seemingly unaffected countenance. "You really would go after a vampire at half strength?"

"Yes," Holmes answered without hesitation.

"Why?"

"It's the right thing to do," Watson replied without a hint of doubt.

"Very well, here is what I know. You are looking for a succubus who goes by the name of Simone. Most of the time she takes the form of a tall brunette with curiously almond shaped eyes. I will write down the address. She will be strong as she has apparently been well fed."

"Then how do advise we defeat her?"

"You seem smart. Devise a plan. She will be sloppy and will rely on her strength. She is unused to having to fight with her brain rather than with her powers or her wiles."

"One last chance to prove that you had nothing to do with this and we may not return and destroy you. How do we know you were not involved?" Holmes asked, standing from the table.

"I have not fed in a very long time."

It was their turn to look surprised.

"Why?" Watson asked.

"Because I am in love."

With that, the two left with only two static weapons, their wits, and a hastily devised plan. It was night and they would be playing to her advantage, but they couldn't risk waiting otherwise there would be another body discovered by morning.

They chose another alley, only this time it had a dead end. There would be nowhere to run and no room for failure. They would have one chance.

Holmes stood half naked in the moonlight at the very end of the alley. He was stained with mud and his hair was messy, an inevitable result of rubbing himself around strategic areas in order to leave a distinct trail of his scent. He was shivering slightly from the cold, his bare arms automatically coming up to encircle his equally bare chest. The beat of his heart seemed to be the loudest sound in the otherwise eerily silent night.

"Oh, sweet boy, why are you here alone?"

The voice drifted from the open end of the alley, sweet as honey, masking the venomous intent.

Simone appeared, eyes aglow with barely suppressed hunger. That was all she was now, a creature possessed by her hunger. Death painted with a pretty face.

"M-my father, I've run away," Holmes said. His heart fluttered, there had been more to the story, but he had forgotten.

"Sweet boy, brave boy," she cooed, coming ever nearer, "I shall ease your suffering."

A dizzying and exquisite feeling of pure lust struck Holmes, more powerful than any magic he had ever experienced in his entire life. The feeling was an entity all on its own. It smelt of lavender and as she kissed him it tasted of dark chocolate.

From the roof of the building, Watson fired his revolver, eyes flashing golden amber, wolfen eyes piercing through the darkness, his aim devastatingly precise, but he missed all the same. The succubus was able to dodge the shots to her head, three of them hitting her nonetheless in the neck, shoulder, leg and hip, but for her they were hardly a mortal wound. In fact, it only accomplished to enrage her. Holmes used her momentary distraction to whip out his knife and attempted to slash her across the throat. Testament to his skill and planning, Holmes was able to garner a thin line of pinkish blood across her pale throat before his own throat was encased in the crushing grip of the succubus' preternaturally strong hand.

Holmes attempted to stab her in the heart, but she merely shook him and then resorted into slamming him against the side of the building until he dropped the dragger. Vision quickly tunneling, Holmes barely registered the succubus scaling up the side of the building as easily as if the thing were horizontal rather than vertical to come upon where Watson had been situated. Watson was severely weakened by maintaining the partial transformation, but that didn't mean he hadn't tried with all his might to free Holmes from her deathly grip. He was kicked nearly thirty feet through the air, almost tumbling over the edge of the building, but was unmercifully stopped by a low wall. Watson hit not with a thud, but a crunch, a crunch of very little likelihood of survival.

Holmes rasped out his friend's name. He had enough breath for that only because she allowed it. She did not want him dead yet after all. She slammed him up against something. Something hard and unyielding and her hands darted towards his waistband, almost whimpering in anticipation, which morphed suddenly into a high pitched scream as one last gunshot pierced through the night, blowing through the back of her knee and making a gory mess of her shattered kneecap. Watson had barely been able to steady the shot against the solid floor of the roof.

Simone pitched to the side, crippled, momentarily dropping Holmes.

That was when the previous succubus came up from behind and promptly ripped the other succubus' arm off. The one-armed succubus screamed, her voice reaching previously unheard decibels of sound. Thankfully, the previous succubus had not only delivered aid, but a gift and Holmes snatched up the knife and without pause, slit the bitch's throat so that her scream turned into a wet gurgle of pink blood.

Dazed and barely conscious, Holmes crawled over to Watson's crumpled form. Not knowing what to do, he simply sat there, half slouched against his friend's unmoving body.

"Why did you help us?" he whispered to the first succubus through a nearly crushed windpipe.

"Manners, the first thing to go when injured, I suppose," she said, a smile nearly gracing her features before they darkened once more. "I cannot change what I am and neither can I truly change who I am, but I can try."

"I commend your efforts."

"And I yours." This time the amusement was clear on her face. "You used yourself as bait, I see. Used your allure as a virgin to your advantage."

"Suffice to say, I will try and remedy that as soon as possible."

She gave a tinkling laugh. "Don't, I think it rather suits you."

"As a savory treat?"

Just then Watson stirred, groaning loudly. "Holmes, are you—?"

"As of yet, still undefiled by conniving females."

He grunted, undoubtedly realizing that laying on broken ribs was less than agreeable. "Good. There can…" his breath wheezed out of semi-crushed lungs, "…only be one womanizer in this partnership."

"I will go find you two some help." The succubus turned placing a well formed leg on the edge of the building, preparing to jump.

"Thank you…" Holmes blinked, wishing his head wasn't so full of cottony fluff so that he could remember if he knew her name or not.

"Irene," she replied. "Irene Adler."

Then she was gone, whether or not she brought back help went undetermined as Holmes and Watson were suddenly whisked away by two people clothed in blessedly familiar red and blue robes.

Holmes and Watson woke, entirely healed and again wearing familiar clothes, only now their stoles were infused with a sheen of silver that would set them apart from others who wore the same. They were surrounded by a conclave of Magus. Crimson robes from their own Academy, powder blue for the East Academy, forest green for North, and black for South.

One of the Magus held out his arms in a grand greeting. "Congratulations, the two of you are this year's champions for the Spring Games."

Unsurprisingly, they were less than excited about the fact than they would have been over a week ago.

"The last challenge was unreasonable. We could have died." Holmes' voice rasped even though the raw burn in his throat was gone.

"Rest assured you were being fully supervised."

"You lie!" Holmes spat. "The Other world past the Veil is beyond your jurisdiction."

Watson's eyes widened in shock as he realized where exactly they had been.

"This tournament was supposed to be a test of our magical skills. What you did was cruel and unfair."

Another Magus spoke up. "There is more to life than magic, as you are so fond of saying, young Holmes. It isn't magic that makes a magician dangerous, but their mind. Your performance in the final challenge demonstrated the true scope of your resourcefulness and talent."

"What if we hadn't chosen to seek out the succubus? What if we had chosen to do nothing?" Watson asked.

"Technically, you still would have been champions," the original Magus stated. "You have been the only remaining players for thirty six hours." He cleared his throat. "As you know, you now have access to the sorcerer's scrolls and the private summoners' room. Congratulations again on your victory."

They were sent away and the room emptied until only a few of the crimson robed Magus remained.

"They did well, though it was very close," one of the Magus remarked, almost casually.

"Yes," another nodded, "I had my doubts when Magus Moriarty first suggested it. Young Holmes was not out of line when he said it was cruel. We effectively crippled the two of them."

"They needed to be prepared," the Magus that had presided over the ceremony growled. "Their futures are set. We were doing them a favor."

"And if they had died?"

The Magus' face remained stony. "Perhaps that would have been a kinder fate."

* * *

_Wow, i can't believe i wrote this much for this thing. Damn._


	18. Pieces

_Magic Arc Series_

_post-Reichenbach, crossover with The Great Mouse Detective_

_Remember that one heroin!fic I produced as an effect of pain meds? Well this one is more like dry-Barbados-rum-mixed-with-Minute-Maid-pomegranate-lemonade-on-the-rocks!fic as a result of…um, holiday cheer. Four glasses of it to be exact. Enjoy! WARNING: Little to no editing involved._

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Watson lounged about the sitting room, grumbling to himself as the room steadily grew more and more humid in the summer heat. He was currently laid out upon the sofa with absolutely no desire to get up and fetch himself a glass of water, much less open a window. Normally he would have manipulated the viscosity of his blood to become thinner and for his blood vessels to dilate slightly to better facilitate the release of heat inside his body or simply produced a thin layer of frost, but as Holmes had decided to spend the day in lower East End…

Before he heard the tell-tale sound of cat-like footsteps upon the stairs or a cab pulling up to the curb, he felt, not so much a tingle as the feeling of pulling on a perfectly tailored shirt. Magic once again renewed, Watson did the most logical thing and created a miniature rain cloud of which he eagerly drank from. Hail, he decided, was much more unpleasant to have slip down his collar.

Minutes later, Holmes burst into the room.

"Watson, I have some terrible news that I must relate to you."

"Is Gabriel making another annual visit?"

"No and now that you have brought it up, I must say this crisis is much lower on a scale of sheer unpleasantness than I had first made it out to be."

"Oh?"

"Yes, indeed." Holmes' eyes glinted. "Moriarty has found a way to cheat death."

Watson sat up in alarm. "But how?"

"By preserving a small portion of his soul in another being."

Watson's heart pounded as he waited for the hammer to fall.

Holmes stalked to the window to stare down into the street below, expression grim. "A rodent, one by the name of Professor Rattigan."

Watson blinked. "So…Professor Moriarty is now terrorizing London…in the form of a rat?"

Holmes whirled about to face him. "Think of the catastrophic amount mayhem and chaos he could induce!"

"By spreading disease…or looting small percentages of grain?"

"By unseating the entire British government! This is a serious matter, Watson!"

Watson forced himself not to smile in the face of Holmes' passionate chastisement. "Ah, of course. I suppose you have a solution to all of this?"

For the first time in a very long time, Watson bore witness to one of Holmes' grins of particularly dramatic cunning.

"I do indeed. I do believe, Watson, that is high time I take up a familiar."

The next day and nearly every day that week, Holmes could be found with a singularly gifted mouse with an uncannily familiar leanness that, when not receiving lessons on chemistry and basic letters, was seen to be perched upon Holmes shoulder as the detective made his rounds about the many different circles of London society and introduced samples of soil, mud, dirt, muck, and various other forms of earth.

Soon enough, Basil—for that was what Holmes had decided to call his furry protégé—was scurrying about on his own, armed with miniature deerstalker cap and magnifying glass.

He came to consult with Holmes, of course, oftentimes pacing across the arm of Holmes' chair by the fire as he discussed his latest discoveries, while Holmes listened intently, chin resting intently upon his fist, offering up advice on how to proceed or what methods to try rather than the clues themselves.

It was after one of these meetings nearly a month into the project when Watson decided to inquire on the matter.

"Is Basil making much progress on the case?"

Holmes sighed, one hand cradling his pipe while the other lay deep within his dressing gown pocket. "No. He has gathered a splendid amount of information and has succeeded in foiling more than three of Rattigan's smaller enterprises, but has been unable to devise a plan that could guarantee the disintegration and proper conviction of the whole organization." Holmes ran an errant hand through his hair, a habit he was unaware was mirrored by Basil right before he had left the sitting room via a small portion of wood trim along the wall. "Perhaps I should just find a way to transform myself and resolve the matter on my own."

Watson stared pensively at the carpet, finger absently stroking his mustache. He liked Basil, he really did and he saw far too much of his friend in the young mouse than Holmes would ever care to admit.

And perhaps that was the key.

"Holmes, if you would give me a few days, I believe Basil can still be relied upon."

Admittedly Holmes gaze was more considering than curious, but he allowed Watson to go on his mission with his blessing.

Hardly a day later and it was Watson's turn to burst in the sitting room.

"Holmes, I have found our solution!"

He held out his cupped hands for Holmes to see. The significance was not lost on the astute detective.

Holmes frowned. "Watson, he looks nothing like you."

Watson smiled warmly at the rather generous lump of fur currently nestled between his two palms. "I watched this fellow carry a length of bright red string three city blocks only to leave it in the room of a young boy. He's a patient of mine—Arthur, is his name. He only recently lost both his father and his younger sister. His father was a manager at a yarn factory in Chelsea and he would tie a piece of string on Arthur's finger whenever he saw his son looking sad in order to remind the lad to look for the happy times despite the bad. I think Arthur likes to show his appreciation by sneaking bits of his dinner to this fellow whenever he can."

Holmes stared down at the thing with slightly more interest than before, although he still couldn't help but feel that the creature more resembled Mycroft than his friend.

Rather than give the mouse extensive amounts of tutelage as Holmes had done, Watson merely talked to his rodent counterpart, sharing his adventures and teaching him to read through introducing him to several of his published works rather than scientific monographs.

Eventually, Dawson—a name oddly enough suggested by Holmes—was collecting his bowler hat and small suitcase, insisting he could not impose on their hospitality any longer.

"Incidentally, I do believe that there are a few rooms available just below Baker Street," Watson suggested offhandedly.

"I haven't got very much money," Dawson admitted a little sheepishly.

"Nonsense, I am sure there will be someone willing to take up digs with you," Watson said encouragingly.

"He may be rather difficult to live with and sometimes unappreciative of your presence," Holmes suddenly cut in.

Watson attempted to shoot his companion a questioning glance, after all this had been the plan all along, but Holmes expertly avoided it by reaching for a well placed cigarette on the mantelpiece.

"Nevertheless," Watson soothed, "he shall need your services."

"He will…require a doctor?" Dawson questioned hesitantly, paw unconsciously creeping towards the place he had been injured several months before by a particularly violent weasel he had sought to ward off in a dusty field out in the far country as if he doubted anyone would require a doctor such as him.

Watson nodded. "Most definitely."

"And a friend," Holmes spoke up again from his place by the grate. "He will need a friend."

Watson and Dawson exchanged a momentary glance before severely shrunken bowler hat and suitcase were taken up determinably in either paw.

"Well, I was never one to scamper off when someone is in need. Cheerio, gents."

Two days later and Basil had requested the use of Toby, an obviously reluctant Dawson trailing behind.

Four days later and Basil was relating the details of his spectacular defeat of Professor Rattigan to Holmes. Watson had been surreptitiously attempting to take notes (figuring Basil would be even less thrilled than Holmes at the prospect of having his adventures recorded since it would be a wholly futile gesture seeing as most of the mice population were illiterate) and was therefore surprised when Basil clambered up his sleeve, thanking him quite enthusiastically.

"Thank you very much, Doctor! Dawson has made a considerable difference in my casework." He then gestured excitedly towards the door with an exuberant proclamation of, "Come Dawson, the game's afoot! The sewers await our expert exploration!"

Dawson's features twisted into an exasperated but fond smile. "Very well Basil, lead on."

Holmes cleared his throat, somewhat loudly, staring pointedly at his smaller counterpart.

Basil twisted a bit of his fur, which appeared to be more a gesture of casual grooming rather than nervous fidgeting, eyes darting equally between Holmes and Dawson. "Of course, I-I've been meaning to locate this one part of the sewer that…that comes up below this restaurant thar is uh, very nice. Perhaps we could eat lunch—dinner, most likely, once we have investigated the other parts of the tunnels."

Dawson's whiskers perked up. "That sounds splendid."

Basil blushed and nodded. "Right, let's go then."

The four said their goodbyes with Basil and Dawson going off to adventure and Holmes and Watson settling down for a relatively quiet afternoon spent at Baker Street, its peace facilitated rather than ruined by Holmes' masterful violin.

Sometimes magic was about watching all the pieces fall into place and finding out that some things really do change for the better.

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_Dedicated to the Disney cartoon that started it all for me. I used to watch The Great Mouse Detective EVERY DAY after preschool for four months until I inevitably broke the VHS. It was eventually replaced and I watched it with less frequency, but then, when I was twelve my GATE English teacher assigned The Hound of the Baskervilles and I realized, "Watson isn't fat?!"_


	19. True Torture

_Magic Arc Series_

_Warning: Maaajor Watson torture. Blame Watson's_Woes for this._

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There was only one test Holmes had ever failed at the Academy.

"_No…no, no, no—please!" Holmes gasped desperately, on his knees like a beggar, tears streaming down his face unchecked as he watched, utterly helpless to what was happening before him._

_Watson was being levitated four feet off the ground, legs kicking frantically, hands clawing at his neck and face, his chest the only part of him remaining still as it failed to draw breath._

"_Join me, Holmes. Give me your power."_

"_I can't," Holmes cried. "Please!"_

_And where there was silence, there was screaming, the horrifying screams of raw, unadulterated pain. Blood was dripping down like crimson drops of rain from Watson's ears and eyes. His arms were being stretched out from his body, popping from the sockets. At the same time he was being squeezed, his organs throbbing against his body being constricted around them. _

_Holmes smashed his fists against the floor, the tiled floor shattering to pieces. Magic crackled in the air around him like miniature bolts of lightning. Uncontrolled gales of wind whipped about him, his tenuous control on his magic unraveling faster than his sanity. He bent his head forward, hair obscuring his face as he whispered something no one but the devil could hear._

_And he heard it._

_There was a cackle of triumph and then Watson's limp and deformed body was thrown down before him. Holmes pulled it against him like it was the most precious thing on earth, sobbing loudly as his shaking hands searched frantically searched for a pulse. _

"_Watson, please," Holmes choked, trying to wipe the blood away from his friend's face while avoiding irritating the large laceration striped across it. "John, no. No, no…"_

_All he got in response was a wet cough that left blood stained on Watson's lips._

"_Help him," Holmes snarled._

"_Very well."_

_A flood of white hot energy flowed through Holmes, feeling wholly wrong and even as it gave him the strength to reach into Watson's body and physically pump the failing heart, he felt himself being lost in its grip, everything he had been erased away, like a metal sculpture that had been melted down and made into a knife. _

"_Do you regret your choice?"_

"_Only that I did not do it sooner."_

Holmes opened his eyes to find himself lying curled up on the floor, face turned away from the mirrored ceiling, its contents murky and unclear like muddy water. He was shivering and he could taste bile in the back of his throat.

"You've failed."

Holmes rolled over and stood up and turned his back on the Magus addressing him. He watched some of the other students rise. One girl vomited before she was supported by her friend. They wrapped their arms around each other, weeping softly, clutched in a comforting embrace.

"You will take the test again."

The nineteen year old stared the man straight in the eye with enough coldness to freeze an entire sea.

"No."

He turned on his heel and left. For the other students, they woke up and remembered that there was no danger, that what they had seen were illusions, tricks of the mind, untrue. For Holmes, the truth was that his friend had been gone for over four years and that some of his last memories of him had been of Watson lying unresponsive in a bed with no cure. The reality was that Holmes was alone.

Magus Moriarty watched Holmes leave, disappointed in his apprentice's substandard performance.


	20. Lows & Laughs for Lestrade

_Magic Arc Series_

_*slight continuation from Ch.16: Little Kids in London  
*slight reference from Ch. 7: Trick _

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With a secret as big as originating from another world and possessing a large scope of magical powers, it paid to have confidantes.

Inspector Lestrade had naturally been high on their list of potential candidates. As Chief Inspector, he had the ability to smooth over the many coincidences that would often work in favor the pair's independent consulting agency from appearing too grievously outlandish and simply more serendipitous, such as water mains bursting to impede the efforts of a well known arsonists or the fact that for every time by all rights either one or the both of them should have emerged dead, they survived time and time again against odds that literally baffled the mind. Not only that, but it was a point of pride for Holmes that when he bested Lestrade, it was at least with Lestrade knowing the full range of his skills.

It had also become a rather moot point when, after a bullet had severed Lestrade's femoral artery during the unexpected breakout of a firefight, Watson had been forced to dump him into a tub full of water to forcibly guide the liters of blood flooding out of his body back into the tear in his leg and seal the wound in order to preserve his life.

Lestrade had woke up ravenously hungry, half submerged in a hotel bathtub, to see Watson withdraw his hand from the water and wearily sink to the floor from where he knelt beside the tub. He knew instinctively, that he should have been dead just as surely as he knew the water had been glowing faintly before Watson had removed his hand.

"How?" he croaked, directing his gaze to the detective since the doctor seemed too tired to answer.

Holmes sat with his back against the closed door, his eyes as hard as flint. "We have made a very great sacrifice on our parts, Inspector. We expect that you make it worth the effort."

"Do you remember that coin trick, Lestrade?" Watson asked, offering him a tired smile. "Would you like to see it again? Only this time, we'll tell you the secret."

Lestrade nodded, captivated beyond reason.

Holmes produced a coin. "Are you watching closely, Inspector?"

He was and when the explanation came, he was even more amazed.

Within a few months of course, it became less and less enchanting as he feverishly worked to doctor reports into mere happenstance rather than anything supernatural and had to endure Holmes' oftentimes gleeful flaunting of his natural abilities. He would have been more jealous if he didn't also have to witness the heavy price it cost. No gift was without payment, after all.

However, one day, whilst filing away various recent missing persons reports, one of the constables working in the office stuck his head in to tell him a couple of lost lads had come around the station asking for him. Lestrade had distractedly agreed to allow them in and was soon confronted by a stick thin child, knobby knees visible beneath the dark short pants, imperiously striding through his office door and sitting primly upon the chair across from his desk, whereupon he crossed one leg over the other and pressed his fingertips together, gazing over them with a serious frown that was marred by the overlarge bowtie digging in to his sharp chin and the coal black hair that was slicked back with far too much promade.

"Inspector Lestrade." The 'r' was being rolled with a ridiculous trill of an undeveloped soprano. "I have been closely monitoring the newspaper and it has come to my attention—"

The dark haired boy was interrupted by the office door swinging open once more to reveal a towheaded young lad, all of barely a meter tall and with his collar haphazardly fastened, who waved pleasantly at Lestrade before sitting down on the open half of the other boy's chair.

"Hallo Lestrade," the other boy greeted, somewhat belatedly since he was forced to remove the white and green striped candy stick from his mouth.

"Where did you get that?" the dark haired boy questioned immediately, attention entirely diverted from what he was previously saying.

"Jones gave it to me," the flaxen youth replied, his lips making a smacking sound as he popped out the treat from his earnest enjoyment of the thing.

The first boy crossed his arms and snorted unhappily. "It's your freckles. Everyone always thinks you're so_ darling_."

Lestrade nearly passed out from a fit of laughter that almost sent his head into the desk.

It was very hard to look like a high and mighty wizards while sucking on sassafras and it was certainly worth the many hours of extra work and headaches to hear Holmes' unadulterated cry of delight as Watson shyly revealed a second candy stick from his jacket pocket and giggle gaily when Holmes engulfed him in a swift hug.

Dear God, he had four boys of his own and he had never seen them perform something even remotely as cute as that.


	21. Healer's Heart

_Magic Arc _

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Holmes had the gift of Sight. It was a natural ability and allowed him to look beyond the many layers of reality and perceive the many threads that bound it all together. With some effort, he could interpret the many strands of probability, evaluating each outcome and determining the most likely eventuality. It wasn't the he was wrong this time, just that sometimes the universe worked in unpredictable ways.

The girl couldn't have been much older than nineteen. So much life ahead of her, so many probabilities…gone.

Watson worked on her to the best of his abilities, but she died, fading away from the world of life.

It was both their fault. If Holmes had been smarter, if Watson had been better…but no.

Watson had won over death once before, but this time he was angry, frustrated, and bitter. He meant to bring her back for all the wrong reasons and instead of the rejuvenation of life he accomplished years ago, he instead reached past the heart that had ceased to continue beating and simply latched on the last remnants of the girl's essence, tethering it to the physical realm with his magic, forcing it to remain until her unseeing eyes opened, bloodless lips parting, and she began to make the transition to _undeath_.

It was horrifying, vile, and wrong.

All Holmes had to do to stop it was simply walk away, walk away and cut off Watson's connection to his magic.

But he stayed.

"Let go, old boy. Let go. Not like this. It should never be like this. I'm sorry. Let go. Please, Watson. She doesn't deserve this. You did everything you could. That's enough."

He stayed even though Watson had nearly tainted himself with the darkest form of magic. He stayed when the girl finally passed away. He stayed when Watson totally broke down.

He stayed because it was the right thing to do.


	22. Brothers, Forgiveness, & Sins

_Magic Arc-kid!verse  
Technically, mid-teen/coma!verse. Check out my lj for timeline:_ _http:/ /pro-prodigy. livejournal. com/ 9557. html  


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"Mycroft,_ please_."

"The answer, Sherlock, remains unchanged."

"If you would just contact him."

"No."

"Then tell me where he is! I will do whatever it takes."

Mycroft glared hard, unfazed by his younger sibling's pleas. "No. Father is not to be distracted from his duties in the Heavenly Realms over this…development."

Sherlock paled, further even than the sickly pallor he had developed over the last several months, his eyes straying towards the form of his friend, laying motionless on the bed by the bay window. The best description of how sorry a state Watson was in would be that the healers who had put him there considered him little more than a plant, set there in hope he would thrive somehow, but given little care besides.

At just barely sixteen, Sherlock was now the same height as his bulkier elder brother, but the youth reflected in those eyes, hoping for a miracle, desperate for some cure-all and the assurance that everything would be alright.

"Mycroft," the voice was barely above a whisper. "I beg you. Ask father to return, to help try and cure Watson. Please."

Mycroft shook his head. "I will not."

Anger shown brightly in his brother's face. "Then get out," he snapped, furiously. "The only family I ever had is either dead, gone, or in this room, so leave!"

Mycroft acquiesced to his brother's wishes and moved to exit the room, pausing at the door. "You should eat something, Sherlock. Your studies are suffering. Someday, this may all be over and what will you have then?"

"Get out." There was no fire then, just resignation.

It was a logical progression. If Watson did die, Sherlock would not truly desire to be alone, after all.

Mycroft could hear Sherlock speaking quietly to his comatose friend as he shut the door behind him.

"I'm sorry, Watson. I promise I will try and find another way to contact my father. It was very sunny today. I expect you would have enjoyed it. Can you feel it, Watson? It's coming through the window."

Mycroft could bear it no longer and quickly strode away down the corridor.

Sherlock would be angry with him for some time, perhaps forever if Watson died. He had tried everything within his abilities to bring Watson back to no avail. There was no point in telling Sherlock that he had far surpassed their father's waning powers. He felt the price of his brother's momentary wrath was well worth Sherlock being able to maintain the feeble hope that somewhere far away, existed a cure for his ailing friend. Mycroft would be forgiven, but it was unlikely Sherlock would extend the same courtesy to a father who had dispassionately turned down the desperate entreaty Mycroft had sent on his behalf.

Magic was all about belief, believing wholeheartedly and unreservedly that whatever you tried to perform would be achieved.

Mycroft hoped what he attempted would reach the desired effect. He hoped it would be enough.


End file.
